


Tears of the Soul

by reynkout



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: ADHD, Acts of Kindness, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternative Universe - Gymnastics, Asperger Syndrome, Bad Decisions, Caring, College, Coping, Drugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Dynamics, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Growing Up, High School, Life Lessons, M/M, Male Bonding, Partying, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Content, Slice of Life, Struggling, Workplace, basically a snapshot of 20 years of their life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 18:43:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2120643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reynkout/pseuds/reynkout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean is this boy whom people believe is absolutely crazy. He's crazy about drawing. He's crazy about my  plush seahorse that's been sitting in my room for ages. He's crazy about the color red. But what I didn't expect him to be crazy about is <i>me</i>.</p><p>This is the story of Jean Kirstein, the only true neighbor I've ever really had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When the Willow Weeps

**Author's Note:**

> It's about time I did something _not so light and comical_ like the [Retail Store Trilogies](http://archiveofourown.org/series/123387).  
>  Here we are, kids, this is what I conjured up in a matter of brainstorming the entire summer.
> 
> Also, I'll be keeping an eye on the tag "fic: TotS" just in case.  
> I don't know how many chapters this is gonna be, but I can tell you that you're in for a ride.  
> The rating will probably spike from Mature to Explicit due to the later chapters. Be aware.  
> I have a [tumblr](http://wear-a-reynkout.tumblr.com/). Thanks!

“He’s gone crazy,”

Those are the words that passes through his ears. And _he_ is in the corner of the dinky living room, huddled in a ball. His chest is pressed tight against his knees, his arms hugging his legs. He dares not to rock back and forth, because he knows how much that annoys the others sitting in the room. Everything he does annoys them. His very presence just ticks them off. I’m the only exception. He puts his head into the safe makeshift cave between his elbows, hiding his face wrought with, what I can imagine, fear and anxiety of what will come in the future.

“He’s a lost cause,”

“But we tried…!”

I sit on the dark leather sofa, hands balled into fists on my lap. I’m only here because our neighbors are trying to explain something to my parents about their son, who doesn’t want to come play with me. He’s too busy acting like he’s an armadillo; scrunching up into a ball like that. A ball of fair skin and ashy blond hair, his red t-shirt and khaki shorts hanging on his small frame. I straighten my posture, looking down at him. Not looking down _on_ him, though, not like his parents do whenever my papa and mama aren’t around. I see them scowling at their son whenever I come home from my grandparents’, walking through the hallway to my home, his toys strewn all over the place. I always wear my shoes in the hallway even though it’s carpeted. Once, I stepped on a few Lego pieces he left out. I screamed out, crying because it hurt so much, until my mama came racing towards me and coaxing me with my face in her bosom so I wouldn’t make so much noise and disturb everyone else in the apartments.

“You should send him to a special school,”

My ears perk up then, the conversation between my parents and his suddenly interesting, even if it’s only for a second. Was our neighbors’ son going to be sent away? Maybe he’d go to a private academy, like those boarding schools I’ve heard of. It sounds fun, to be away from parents and play with all the other kids who attended. But then, I look at him huddling in the corner. I’m not sure he would enjoy it as much as I would.

“You know, he’s much too young for that,”

True, the neighbors’ boy is younger than me by two years, in fact. Although he and I look around the same age, from both physique and height comparisons, he’s actually the younger of the two of us. Especially his mind. I have never heard him once say a full sentence. It’s always a ‘yes’, or a ‘no’, or a mashup of slurred sounds to indicate to his mother that he wants something.

“Isn’t there a way to treat this?”

“Don’t be silly, Wiebke. When have you ever heard of someone being cured from a disorder like Jean’s?”

Jean is the name of the boy. He lives with his parents, Hans and Wiebke Kirstein, who just traveled all the way from Germany to settle here, in the heart of San Francisco. Well, that’s what Mama told me, anyway. They certainly do have a different accent than my family. They always get their v’s and w’s mixed up, and Hans really has a hard time saying the th’s; it comes out as z’s.

“He’s still our son, Hans.”

Jean’s mother sounds defensive. I’ve zoned out for quite a while. Jean is still in the same place he was before. No one is paying attention to me. I uncurl my fists then, hopping off the cushioned sofa, and toddle over to Jean. I want to talk to him, even if he doesn’t talk to me. He _is_ my neighbor, after all. Mama taught me to always be kind to thy neighbor.

I sit myself down in front of him, criss-cross-applesauce. He doesn’t move, doesn’t recognize that I’m there. It makes me frown, because I don’t really like to be ignored up-front. I stare at him for a while, my lips puckering a bit like they always do when I concentrate really hard on something. I’m concentrating on him. I’m concentrating my energy on Jean so he’ll look up and see that I’m right here.

After what seems like hours, it works. He lifts his head from his elbows and stares back at me.

Jean’s eyes are the prettiest shade of amber I’ve ever seen. They’re a light color, kind of like the whiskey bottle perched on my papa’s office desk all the time. The whiskey-like shade transforms into a green towards the middle until it hits the black part, reminding me of Mama’s jade necklace she always wears when we go out for dinner or see my uncles and aunties and their children. I like Jean’s eyes a lot. It makes him look so expressive, even when his face is not. Most of the time, it isn’t. He doesn’t smile. Not yet.

“Hi,” I say. “Hi, Jean,”

He continues to stare at my face, as if he’s trying to take in all of the freckles dotting my cheeks. And I have a lot. Always have, and always will. It’s inevitable; I love being in the sun, and that doesn’t help me prevent freckles.

“Wanna draw, Jean?” I ask. “Let’s draw something together.”

At that moment, he rises from his little corner and runs past me, to his room. I can hear shuffling and stuff being moved as I wait for Jean. No one in the room is paying any attention to me or him. Jean slams the door behind himself, carrying a box of crayons and sheets of white paper. He plops down next to me, throwing the paper on the floor while he fiddles with the cardboard flap of the crayon box. When he gets it open, Jean hands it to me. I raise my eyebrows at him.

Oh. “Thank you, Jean.” I take the box, choosing a color. I pick a red one at first, but when I’m pulling it out, Jean looks terribly heartbroken. I put it back, taking a green crayon instead. He seems to be okay with my choice. I give the crayons back to him, watching as he grabs the red crayon in his chubby hands. I figure that his favorite color is red.

We both share a piece of paper, drawing whatever comes to mind. I draw a flower, like the ones I see growing up and over the wooden arch in the front of the apartments. But the colors aren’t correct, so I reach for the crayon box again. Jean’s too fast; he snatches it away from me. I give him a hurt look, begging him silently to give it back even though the crayons aren’t mine. Suddenly, he dumps all of them onto the ground, nudging the purple toward me. He knows that I’m drawing the flowers outside. I smile at Jean, coloring in my flower. Then, I take my green crayon to add more leaves and stems, drawing more petals with purple and coloring them in. Soon, my whole side of the paper is filled with beautiful lavender flowers. The stems are curly at the ends, reaching for Jean’s picture.

I notice that what he’s making is different than mine. Jean is drawing something different altogether. He’s drawing a red bridge, the one that connects us to the rest of the world; Jean draws the Golden Gate Bridge using the one red crayon he loves so much. Tiny red cars are driving over the bridge, across the page, driving to my flowers.

“What have you made, Marco and Jean?” That’s my papa talking. He’s crouching beside us now, pulling the paper away from me and Jean. Jean pouts. He’s not done with all the little cars yet.

“How wonderful,” Mama compliments. “I like your Golden Gate Bridge, Jean. It’s very good.” She gives him an affectionate smile, then looks at me. “Are those the flowers growing outside?” I nod. “How lovely,”

“Which one do you like most?” Papa asks me.

I like both Jean’s and my drawings, but Jean’s lines look less crooked than mine. They look more stable and sure.

“I like Jean’s bridge the most,” I declare, looking at the boy the entire time while saying what I have to say.

This is the first time in my entire six years of life I see Jean beam. His face lights up, like his parents brought home a puppy or something for his birthday. He grins at me for the first time, showing off his tiny white teeth. He looks so happy.

“We should be heading back,” my papa tells Jean’s parents. “Marco has his first day of school tomorrow.”

“He’s growing up so fast, isn’t he?” Mama gushes. Jean’s mother agrees with her. Mr. Kirstein says nothing. “Come on, Marco, help Jean clean up and we’ll get going.”

I round up all the loose crayons, sorting them back into the crayon box, making sure to miss the red one on purpose. Jean looks really content when he puts back the red crayon last, closing the flap on the box. He tries to snatch our drawings from my papa. Papa laughs, giving it to him.

“Should we divide it so your son can bring home his drawing?” Jean’s mother suggests. Jean and I both say ‘yes’ at the same time. I giggle. Jinx, he owes me a soda.

But Jean starts to act up when his mother gives him his picture of the Golden Gate Bridge. I don’t really understand it until his father starts to look stressed, my parents worried. I take his hand and squeeze it, then let go. He stops, staring at me.

“Here,” I offer my flowers to him. He takes it, handing me his bridge. Just like that, he’s happy again.

Mama breathes a sigh of relief, Papa telling me it’s time to go. I bite my lip, waving at Jean as I join my family. He watches me leaving, his face totally blank.

“Bye-bye, Jean.” I hear myself bidding him farewell. “Let’s play again tomorrow,”

I don’t see him waving back.

* * *

School is fun for me. I get to meet a lot of new people, make friends, play on the playground at recess, and finally, sit down to learn things. Elementary school breezed by, but not without challenges. The tests got harder and harder, and the recesses became shorter and shorter until I found myself having to join a gym for tumbling lessons after school. I would walk home after, too tired to play with Jean. Right, my family and I didn’t move anywhere. Jean is still my neighbor.

Usually, he and I would spend hours after I got home playing outside, where the big arch of flowers were. We’d catch ball and burn ants on the sidewalk with my papa’s pair of glasses, but Jean’s favorite thing to do outside was drawing on the sidewalk with chalk. Whenever he showed up at my door before I showed up at his, he’d be carrying a big carton of Crayola chalk with him.

I love how creative he is, how natural art comes to him. He paints the walkways with vibrant color, as vibrant as chalk can be. He draws whole forests and oceans, little birds flying in the horizon. I would always be the one telling him tales or stories that my parents told me at bedtime, and he’d chalk up the sidewalk with them. One time, I told him a dream about a huge play structure my mind made up. He drew it all in red, and I pretended to play on it like it was real.

But now things are different. I’m starting to have less and less play time in my schedule. This is my second year in middle school. Next year, I’ll be cool, just like all the big kids in eighth grade. It makes me shiver in excitement but, at the same time, I feel like I’m losing Jean. Because Jean is not just my neighbor. He’s one of my first friends who isn’t related to me. Everyone treats Jean like something’s wrong with him, but I don’t. He doesn’t talk much, but that’s okay. I’m the one doing most of the talking, anyhow. He just likes to listen and draw on the sidewalk. I’m perfectly okay with that. He doesn’t go to school like I do. His mother teaches him from home, claiming it’s better than letting Jean out into the real world. I don’t understand what she means by that. So Jean is always at home, always waiting for me to come back from school, practice, or my grandparents’ house.

One day, I come home from practice, exhausted. I trample to my room, setting my rucksack next to my little study desk. The paint is chipping on it, I notice. It used to be red and blue, the wood a yellow color. I wonder if Papa will repaint it for me. I sigh, pouncing onto my soft bed. My sheets are soft against my cheek. I just want to lay here and sleep for an entire week. But I don’t get to; there’s a quiet knock from the front door. Then another. And another, more urgent this time. No one is home except for me. I roll out of my bed, running to the kitchen table. I shove a chair to the front door, standing on top of it to look out the peep hole. Jean leans against the wall so I can see him. He’s still so small.

I remove the chair from the door, placing it near the stove before I unlock the door and open it for him. He has his pail of chalk in his right hand.

“Hello Jean,” I greet him. He gives a little point to my window that overlooks our little playplace. He wants to play with me today. “Okay,” My homework can be finished tonight. That’s what the desk in my room is for, right? “Let me get my shoes on first.”

I lace up my sneakers, Jean kneels down next to me, mimicking me like he’s tying his own shoes even though he has sandals on. It’s funny seeing him copying whatever I do. We head out after that. I take the key strung on a lanyard hanging on the coat rack, locking the door behind me because there’s been a lot of robberies on the news lately. I don’t anyone to touch my stuff.

Jean doesn’t touch his chalk today, surprisingly. He’s spacing out while I’m scritching out squares for hop-scotch in red. I don’t expect him to play, but the way he doesn’t react to me or the fact that I’m using his favorite color is creeping me out a little bit. I go up to him, concerned. He doesn’t give me a sign that he’s conscious of what’s happening around him. I wave my hand in front of Jean’s face, calling out his name. He jumps a mile into the air, like he’s been hit by lightning. I’m confused, a little taken aback by his actions. His head swivels around this way and that, searching for who knows what. His breathing becomes ragged and quick. He looks terrified.

I’m scared, but I put my hands on his shoulders and look him in the eye. “Jean,” My voice is terribly low. “It’s me, Marco,”

He seems to relax when he sees me. We stay like this for a while until he pushes me away from him and walks over to the arch of flowers. He fiddles with the leaves and petals for a long time, ignoring me. I follow him, still getting over his panic attack a few minutes ago. I can’t seem to figure out why he freaked out in the first place. Jean keeps touching the flowers, not interacting with me. I feel like he doesn’t want me here. He doesn’t respond to me like my friends at school do. I stay with him anyway.

Later, in the night, I’m working on my homework but I can’t seem to focus. Jean pops into my mind time and time again. His parents’ voices float in my head, convincing themselves that their son is no good; a failure that they have reaped from their past mistakes. Worse yet, they claim he is a burden. Mama and Papa also talk about Jean, constantly feeling bad for the Kirstein family. I always hear them constantly commending Mrs. Kirstein for her hard efforts because she monitors Jean almost 24/7. She just acts like it’s nothing, that everything is okay and perfect and dandy. I know that’s not true. Jean is troublesome.

I lay my pencil down, pressing my palms to my eyes. I lean back in my chair, sighing. I really care for Jean. I don’t know why everyone feels bad for him or thinks he’s different than the other children. Sure, his personality is a little weird because he doesn’t talk to anyone, but there’re good qualities to Jean too. He’s not shutting me out of his life, so I won’t, either. We’re _friends_.

Ugh, there’s no hope for completing math homework tonight. I file the worksheet away in my folder and put the pencil back into its pouch. A loud yawn slips from my lips; I’m so tired. I click the desk lamp off, the nightlight plugged into the wall turning on automatically. With that, I toe off my booties and tuck myself into my bed.

As soon as my head hits the pillow, I’m out like a light.

 

It’s about two weeks later that I’m able to find free time. As fast as the wind I go, knocking on Jean’s door once, twice, three times before his mother opens it. I say ‘hello, how are you’ and ask if Jean can play with me today. She hauls the boy out of his room. I grin at Jean, and he doesn’t grin at me. I race down the staircase, Jean trying to catch up with me. We like to do this often. I win every time, but that’s because Jean doesn’t want to trip and tumble down.

We don’t have any chalk today, and I didn’t grab my papa’s glasses, so we settle for something more adventurous; Jean and I decide to climb the big tree in the other courtyard.

“Try to catch me,” I cry. I’m like a monkey, climbing high into the tree.

Jean huffs, wiggling up the bark of the tree. He’s trying so hard to keep up with my pace, so I stall. The wind picks up, a breeze ruffling the leaves. It feels nice. Jean is closing in on me slowly. He surpasses me, and I chuckle. I perch on a big branch like a bird while Jean climbs higher and higher. Inside the tree, it looks impossibly infinite to the top. Measuring the drop down, I reckon it could hurt, possibly break a bone or two…

Suddenly, I’m scared. I want to get down from here. I turn my head to Jean, who is stroking the leaves with his palm, straddling a flimsy-looking branch. I open my mouth, but I’m too late. There’s a gust of wind, not just a breeze, that makes the leaves shutter and the tree shake. A horrible sounding snap comes from Jean’s direction. I see him go down, falling with wide eyes. He reaches his hand towards me. I stretch out my own, but our hands don’t touch; I’m only centimeters from saving him. I barely hear myself shouting his name, heart beating out my chest. Jean doesn’t look like he’s scared. He’s looking at me like he’s asking what’s going on. I want to black out. I don’t want to be here. But I am here, and my eyelids feel as if they’re taped open. I can’t shut them.

All I can do is watch, paralyzed in the tree, as Jean hits the pavement with a sickening crack.

* * *

I don’t leave my bedroom for days. I can’t do anything except replay what happened to my neighbor over and over again. Mama is concerned, cooking up my favorite meals and holding me in her arms before she goes to bed. Papa is constantly busy with work, but he comes into my room sometimes and sits next to me. We don’t say anything, gazing either at the stars if it’s night or clouds drifting in the blue, blue sky. I’ve been excused from school this week. My papa had to call the front office, giving them the whole story. I’m sure my teachers are going to be asking me what happened later on, though. I don’t want to tell them anything.

Jean was sent to the hospital after I climbed down from the tree, frantic. I banged on his apartment door until his mother asked me why I was being so rude. When she heard what happened, through my sobs and tears, she called for an ambulance. We checked on Jean together, even driving to the hospital with him.

He wasn’t moving, his eyes closed. I thought I killed him. One of the nurses had to hold me back as they rushed Jean to the ER. I went catatonic afterwards, refusing to talk to anyone until I could see Jean. Finally, I was let into his room. He was resting, breathing steadily. His parents scolded me for letting Jean do such a dangerous thing, climbing up so high in the tree. I didn’t know what to do except for apologize to them. They told me he was lucky to get away with just a broken bone. He had broken his left arm, a big goose bump where he hit his head.

My parents came to pick me up and, since then, I haven’t come out of my bedroom. I’m ashamed. If we hadn’t climbed that stupid tree, Jean would still be fine. He would’ve avoided having a broken arm and a hurting, swollen head. I want to say sorry to him, but I’m too afraid that he doesn’t want to see me ever again.

This is all my fault.

When I lose Jean as my friend, who will I play with now? Who will I share my secrets to? Who will I grow up with? Will we ever play outside again? This is the first time I’ve really messed up in my life. Oh God, and I’m only twelve and a half.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Papa says to me one night before I go to sleep. The lights are turned off, but he knows I’m not dreaming. “It was bad luck. You weren’t the one who made Jean fall. He followed you into the tree.”

I don’t say anything, shoving more blanket underneath my chin. He pets my hair gently before leaving my bedroom. After he clicks the door shut, I cry softly, hiccuping. Even when the tears are gone, the sadness and blame stays in my heart. I want to go back in time and change everything, change my thinking before lifting myself from the concrete and up the trunk of the tree. I eventually pass out due to the lack of sleep I’ve been getting this week.

I’m sorry, Jean. I’m so sorry, is what bounces around in my noggin when I wake up.

It’s a Saturday, which means both Mama and Papa are home. I figure that I can’t keep moping around forever, so I silently go to the kitchen. My mama’s making something that smells wonderful, my eyes lighting up a teensy bit.

I have to at least get over this depression, even if I keep on blaming myself for that incident. I make my way over to the big window in the living room. The day has started for many people. The sun is shining bright, the birds are tweeting, cars are zooming down the steep hills we live on. I realize that although I’ve been stuck in the past, the world around me still goes on. I need to open my eyes and start living again. I need to be alive, like everyone else is. I realize that this isn’t the end of the world for me. Jean is still living. Sure, he’s not in the same state as before. Sure, he may not want to talk to me again, but he won’t stop me from living my life.

The front door opens, and I believe it’s Papa who comes in. I want to say good morning. But when I get there, it’s Jean who faces me. I stop in my tracks, cold-turkey.

Oh. No.

Please, dear Lord, don’t let him hate me.

His blond hair is all moussy, his arm in a red cast, supported by a navy colored sling. He’s still in his pj’s, which have Ben Ten and all his alien transformations printed on it. His feet are covered by the sandals he wore the day he fell. I wince at the memory that forces its way back into my mind. I try to find something else, a sign of speedy healing and recovery. And I do. At least his head looks better. It’s back to its normal size, the goose bump no longer present. His face doesn’t look so scratched up, either.

I don’t utter a word. Quite frankly, I’m too scared to. This is way too early for me to see Jean. My brain is just screaming out ‘no’. No, no, no, no no, no.

Jean waves at me with his good arm, giving me a goofy smile. It’s a smile I haven’t seen in years, since I first met him. I’m so taken aback that I stumble on my own feet. What? He’s not mad at me? Why is smiling? Why is he happy? Even when his arm is broken? What’s going on?

“J-Jean..?”

“Marco,”

I gasp. This is the day of crashing into reality for me or something. My name rolls off of Jean’s tongue so fluidly. He makes it sound so perfect, like it’s the single word he’s been destined to say. All that hits me right now is the thought of ‘he doesn’t hate me, he doesn’t hate me’. I crash into him in a blink of an eye, hugging him; my arms are wrapped around his chubby torso. I’m so emotional that I start to bawl my eyes out into his shoulder. He just stands there, waiting for me to finish. My mama is the one who has to pry me off of Jean.

As it turns out, Jean can’t draw because his writing hand is in the cast. So we settle for a soccer game on the TV. I’m half interested, half not. American soccer isn’t really my favorite; when the World Cup comes on, I’m going to be rooting for Brazil all the way. I’m unusually silent around him today. I’m actually not sure what to talk about, which makes me feel really awkward around him. When we hang out, I’m supposed to be blabbering away. Well, it doesn’t matter right now. The players are moving in a frenzy, trying to obtain the ball. I know Jean’s eyes are fixed on me, not the TV, but I ignore it the best that I can. It’s like he wants to tell me something; he doesn’t.

Jean and I spend the whole day together. We play with my wrestling action figures on my bed. I have a set of them, complete with the wrestling ring to put them in. I got them as a kid for Christmas one year when my family traveled down to Ensenada to see family. It turns out that Jean isn’t very interested in it, though, so he moves onto my old stuffed animals. He clings onto my blue colored seahorse. I don’t have a name for the seahorse. I was too old for snuggle buddies when I received it.

“Do you like seahorses, Jean?” I’m surprised he likes the stuffed animal. I’d been expecting him to choose my plushie of Clifford, the Big Red Dog… since he is, well, red.

Jean doesn’t answer me verbally, as always. Instead, he bumps noses with the seahorse. I haven’t seen him wear anything with seahorses or have any interest in marine life at all, so I come to the conclusion that he just likes _my_ seahorse.

We have dinner together, his parents invited as well but they’re going out tonight and were originally going to have a babysitter come by; they call the babysitter up and cancel last minute so Jean and I can stay together. I’m glad that my family seems trustworthy, because we really are. Mama serves us chicken enchiladas that are the type made kind of like lasagne, and Jean sits there, poking at it. I sigh, shuffling out of my seat to get the sour cream. I give him a big dollop of it on his plate.

“Try it,”

Jean does so, reluctantly, but then his eyes light up when he chews. He shovels more enchilada into his face. Ugh, kids can be so picky sometimes.

Mama and Papa laugh as I scrunch up my nose at Jean. I give him a little ‘I told you so’ before sitting back down to eat the food on my plate. I’m halfway done eating when Jean finishes and asks, quite clearly, for seconds. I raise my eyebrows at him; I’m scolded by my papa to stop making faces and keep my mouth moving. I do. Oh God, Jean has a really cool voice. I don’t know how to describe it. It reminds me a little of those laid-back surfer dudes’ raspy way of talking. My voice isn’t nearly as awesome as Jean’s. Mine is laced with a tiny lisp, my accent pretty nasally. I can sound like a valley girl if I want to. This isn’t something I’m proud to say, considering that _I’m a guy_.

After the meal, Jean and I are allowed to play on Papa’s old game console. We try to dominate each other on Pacman, competitive. Jean’s record beats mine. That’s okay; I don’t play games that much anyway. There’s a marathon of Tom and Jerry on TV, so after Pacman we’re sucked into the world of cats and mice.

Before I know it, Jean’s parents are back.

“Wait,” I run to my room before they can go back to their apartment. I clutch the blue seahorse to my chest, then give it to Jean. “Here. He’s yours now,”

He hugs me without warning. My chest feels warm, and I hug him, too.

I’m so glad Jean’s my neighbor.


	2. Trains and Trolleys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two can _definitely_ play at that game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa, it's almost my birthday as well (September 12)! Go figure...
> 
> I know it's been like, what, a month since I last posted the first chapter? Yeah, sorry. Classes really get in the way, and it's been pretty hard to try and get into Marco's head. Perhaps when they grow older, it'll be easier. We just don't know.
> 
> So, have a good read..?
> 
> I have a [tumblr](http://jeen-christine.tumblr.com/) and now (unfortunately) a [twitter](http://twitter.com/ReynKOUt).

A year has passed since the day I gave Jean my stuffed seahorse. He’s named it Marci, even though I always thought the seahorse was a boy. Jean only shook his head. He said I wouldn’t understand. Aside from that, the stuffed marine animal is always with him. He brings it along everywhere, even when we go to the store and pick up something Mama had forgotten to get while shopping and needed it for dinner that night.

Wiebke Kirstein was called up one day, notifying that her papa in France passed away unexpectedly, which left Jean’s grandmother alone. She had to go back, leaving Jean and her husband behind.

Jean turned out to be a trouble child to his father, angering him often. When my neighbor couldn’t take it, Jean would burst into my apartment and stay the night. His father never worried about him because we were right next door. Jean was safe, and would never get lost. I’d try and comfort him while he wailed hysterically in my arms, wiping away his tears with a Kleenex occasionally.

I kind of felt like a best friend, a mother, and a brother to Jean all at the same time. I’d whisper things like ‘it’s going to be okay’ or ‘you’re good’ until there weren’t any tears left in his light brown eyes. He’d eventually calm down by himself, always sleeping in my bed that night. I didn’t mind; I took the couch in our living room, covering myself with a red throw with pink hearts on it. The last time we shared my bed, he bonked heads with me while sleeping, hogging the blankets all to himself. His foot stuck in my back, and he almost punched me once. Let’s just say I didn’t sleep very well that night.

Jean comes to my tumbling classes with me when his father is busy working, which is very often. We stretch and practice together when I’m not doing something super complicated, me being the more flexible one. He learned how to do a complete cartwheel and was so amazed that, once, he did them for a whole hour while I was practicing my own routine for the upcoming tournament.

Tumbling classes are the good slots in my week. It’s a time where Jean and I do something that _I_ really like. Somehow, the feeling of adrenaline rushing through my veins as I complete a series of double back handsprings gives me this sort of ecstatic high. I want to be the best in my group. I want to win regionals. If I get to nationals, I’d fall to my knees and cry in happiness.

But back to real time. I stick my landing, my arms thrown up into the air high to show everyone I’ve completed my routine. My heart is pounding, my chest going up and down as I suck in air. I move out of the way so my other classmates can do theirs, dropping my arms and walking over to my instructor. Jean’s on the floor next to her, his legs stretched out wide. He’s in his own world again, not even pretending that he’s stretching. I sigh. It’s alright, at least _he’s_ not the one paying for this class. Then again, I’m not either. My parents are, but my birthday money always goes to buying a new gym uniform. Wow, luxuries of being a minor. I look to my instructor again.

“Good work, Marco,” she praises me. I thank her politely. I know the criticism's next. “But you need to remember to keep your legs together when they’re in the air. It really slows you down.”

“But I stuck it at the very end,” I hear myself saying.

“You did,” She smiles gently, reminding me of my mama. “But you want to aim for the top, don’t you?”

Oops. “Yes, Ms. Ral,” I hang my head.

“Don’t worry, Marco. You’ve worked hard,” She gives me a reassuring pat on the back, then sends me to the trampolines.

I ask if Jean can join me. Ms. Ral puts a finger to her nose, a sign that says in one motion ‘only if he doesn’t get in the way’. With a big ‘yahoo!’, I snap Jean back to earth, then pull him all the way to the trampolines. He stands on the side, his attention on me. I warm up, my bouncing starting off small. As I grow more confident, I jump higher, puckering my lips. My first move is a mid-air splits, my joints feeling like they haven’t been used for centuries, though they’ve only been taking a break for two minutes and still give me a jolt of discomfort. Thankfully, I don’t feel any pain.

I jump and try again. This time, I focus on my posture and the way my feet are pointed. I see, in my peripheral vision, that my legs don’t just do the splits. It goes a few centimeters beyond. What the? I wait for the pain of straining a muscle, but it never comes. I feel like I’m soaring through the air, like one of those acrobats at Cirque du Soleil that never fail to amaze me. I’m so carefree, like those pelicans racing along the beach. It’s an eternity before I land, bouncing on the mesh of the trampoline.

Did I just..?

“Whoa, that was awesome!” I turn my head to one of my classmates who has put himself on the other trampoline next to mine. He hops up and down like a bunny rabbit. “You’re so cool, Marco! Holy shit!” It sounds like he’s belching when he swears.

I chuckle under my breath. “Thanks,”

“Connie, language, please!” Ms. Ral shouts from her place, still watching the others flip-flop back and forth over the mats. Connie’s got this really loud voice that can be heard over a mile away.

Connie blushes, embarrassed. “Sorry, Ms. Ral,” He jumps, doing the same splits as me, but his legs don’t go as high as mine. He grins cheekily, “Come on, do it again!”

I start bouncing, then execute the move once more. It’s just like before, I’ve trained so much that I’m able to do this. I gasp, proud of myself; the next time I jump, I end up somersaulting in the air without a thought. I’m going to be ready for regionals. I have to be. If I work a little more, I could most definitely win and, someday, reach nationals. What if I won nationals? That would be the greatest moment of my life. But I can’t let that get to me right now. I’m still young. I need to do my best to improve right now. Besides, I’m nowhere near those who are recommended to enter into regionals.

For instance, Annie. Annie’s one of the best that goes to this gym. She’s a champ when it comes to tumbling. Her form is perfect, her landing is flawless, and the atmosphere around her is calm and cool. I look up to her. Someday, I want to be that perfect.

“Marco,” I blink. It’s Jean.

“Oh, hi.” I wave at him, guilt on my face. Guilt because I was daydreaming. Jean points to a boy, a few years older than me by far, on the poles. He swings himself around and around and, at some point, I feel as if he’ll never stop. But he does, jumping from the lower pole to the higher one. He’s got a red uniform on. I smirk. Jean likes the color, too, not just the routine. “You like it?”

Jean nods, watching. As much as I’d like to imagine Jean doing something like that, he’s just too tiny… and a little slow, as well. He’d probably end up on his face flat if he tried, but he draws like no one else. He’s so good at it. I’m pretty sure that’s his gift. There’s no way I could draw a person like he can. His hands possess some kind of magic or something.

Finally, the session’s over. I race to get changed into my normal clothes, but not before downing half of the water in my water bottle. Exercise makes me thirsty. I peel off my uniform, slipping on my shirt and shorts. It feels so much looser. I kind of don’t like the feeling of loose clothing, especially after tumbling practice. I feel a little insecure wearing casual clothes. But it’s not like anyone’s going to judge me for what I’m wearing. If anything, they’d taunt me if I was still in my uniform, walking around in San Francisco like that.

Jean and I walk along the opposite side of the street of the trolley stop. There’s a little Italian cafe that my papa and I like to go to just a block ahead. The owners know me pretty well so, whenever they see me, I always get free candy or something when I order one of the tasty sodas they offer. Mama gave me money this morning to treat Jean out after practice because it gets pretty hot in the gym after a while, although we do have the air conditioning and fans running sometimes. And Jean gets pretty bored after about five minutes into the session anyways. I do guess it’s pretty fair to take him out for an Italian soda.

The bells chime when I nudge the door open. It’s a heavy door, but I’m strong enough to hold it and let Jean inside first. It slams behind me, scaring Jean; he shudders. I laugh, but only shortly. Jean frowns at me, but I make it disappear by smiling at him. His face is now neutral, his eyes the only thing expressing happiness.

We sit at a booth, grabbing the little menu cards from the metal holder. I immediately pick out my favorite soda: cherry flavor. Jean’s blanking out again. I call out his name twice before he’s looking into my eyes. I divert them, looking at my menu again. His gaze can see right into my soul or something. I feel weird when he does that. It’s like some sorcery he’s able to perform that leaves me perplexed, awed and moved at the same time. Something wiggles in my gut. Feels like the beginning of butterflies, just in caterpillar form.

“Have you… do you know what you’re gonna get?” My voice is surprisingly okay even though I’m not on the inside.

He says, “No.”

The waiter with the same name as me comes by to take our order. I converse with him, receiving two pieces of Andes chocolate for Jean and me to eat while we wait. I order my drink, now waiting for Jean to speak up for himself.

“The same thing,” he’s able to mutter out. Marco the Waiter nods and leaves us to fulfill our order.

We down the minty chocolate. Jean and I don’t talk with each other. He’s busy staring at my face, like he’s counting all my freckles. I clear my throat, but it doesn’t do anything. I observe the other customers in the cafe.

There’s an old couple carefully winding spaghetti onto their forks. To the right of them, two teenage girls are all over this magazine they probably got from the convenience store near my house. They’re gushing about the new members of some boy band. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Next to the window is a well-groomed man with blond hair and strong facial features. His hair is most likely gelled. He’s wearing a hideous Hawaiian aloha-shirt… one of his arms is missing. Interesting. He must have a story to tell with that. I’m about to open my mouth to break the silence between Jean and me when Marco the Waiter rushes back to us with only one cherry soda.

“I know you ordered two, but we ran out of cherry. We only had enough for one. I’m so sorry,” he apologizes. “If I could get you any other flavor..?”

“It’s okay,” Jean peeps. “I want another straw,” He’s given an extra straw. Now he has two. Alright? I give him a confused face.

“I’ll bring you a snack instead, then. Just the regular? I’ll be back with them,” Marco the Waiter declares, and walks off. I don’t even get a chance to give my opinion.

I puff my cheeks. “You can have it, Jean.”

He sticks the second straw into the soda, but points it in my direction. I quirk an eyebrow at him. Huh? Jean sets the soda in the middle of the table then, reaching it by hoisting himself up with his elbows planted on the wooden table. He’s waiting for me to take the first sip.

We’re, we’re going to share this? But I just told him he could have it.

He nudges the straw he designated for me, getting impatient. I just sit there, blinking. Fine. Then I give in, leaning closer and taking the straw between my lips. I peer up at Jean’s face. He makes a nod. I suck in my first gulp of cherry soda.

The flavor explodes on my tongue, the fizz giving it an exquisite sensation. I hum, this is why cherry Italian soda is my favorite. It’s not like the alcohol-soaked neon red cherries that are always on the top of an ice-cream sundae. It’s this wonderful flavor that’s truly from the fruit itself. My mouth waters around the straw. Jean dives in shortly after, drinking up the soda. He grins around the plastic straw. And then I notice… He’s drinking it too fast! I’m starting to see the ice, soda-free.

Oh no, he doesn’t.

Two can play at that game.

I slurp up the drink faster, trying to get as much soda as I’m able to before Jean can. We race, drinking without choking and sputtering on the carbonation. I prop my elbows onto the table like Jean. I’m destined to beat him… so, so close to beating him. The tall glass is almost to its end. I hope I get the last gulp of cherry soda. Please, please, please…

With a loud suck, Jean gets the last of it; he wins our little game. We both let out huge sighs, catching our breath. I’m about to evolve gills at this point. I lick my lips, the cherry taste having already invaded my taste buds. I applaud him as he smirks in triumph. To my side, Marco the Waiter stands there, grinning like a fool.

Oh God, was he watching us?

He sets down a plate of ricotta fritters with a crushed tomato paste. Jean and I dig in. I guess we’re more hungry than we thought. When we’re done, I wipe Jean’s red chin even though he struggles in protest. I pay the bill, tipping Marco the Waiter generously. He bids us a good day as we leave.

Jean and I cross the street illegally, but it’s faster than going all the way to the end of the street and having to wait for the crosswalk light. Besides, the trolley is almost here. I take Jean’s hand, speeding up. We run across the asphalt, reaching the other side safely. We’re able to hop onto the trolley in time, riding it all the way to the block we live on. I hold the vertical handrail on the outside of it, partially hanging out of the trolley. My bangs are pushed back as we move along. I take a deep breath in. It’s sunny today, but still cold. There’s a chill even though it’s summertime in San Francisco. This is how our city works. It can be colder in the summertime than in the winter. We’re like the Australia of California. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, to be honest.

I’m pulled back into the trolley by some woman before I can initiate in a big song about my day like all the musicals do. She’s got a child with her and shouts at me for being so obnoxious. She says that I could’ve been killed. But I do this all the time, and no one stops me. She must be a tourist. I tell her I’m sorry and don’t do it again until she gets off the trolley. Jean joins me then, one arm on the rail and the other on my shoulder for support. Sooner or later, our apartments are in sight. We take off, our feet slamming on the pavement.

We make it home without getting run over by a car.

* * *

“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go, Mexico!” I’m screaming at the TV as I watch the Copa. Mexico’s where most of my family live, so I’ve _got_ to be on Mexico’s side. 

Our little apartment is packed with Mama and Papa’s friends. We’re holding a party so everyone can watch the match together. In a sense, it’s kind of like those Super Bowl parties that the other building celebrates, except there’s no one drunk enough to get rowdy and streak down the halls while wearing their team’s color in war paint. I remember the last game. The police had to come in and take people away. That scared me. I hope I won’t be doing that when I’m in my twenties…

Jean’s father is away in Germany, so he’s staying with me. We’re sharing my room, which works out for the most part. We bought this inflatable air bed to set next to mine so Jean can sleep there, but it seems like I’m the one who sleeps on it more than he does. He certainly prefers a _real_ bed. The mattress loses air after a week or so, so I’ve got to pump it up now and then. I can see why this is a pain for Jean. He doesn’t like this type of manual work. At all. I just groan loudly before going to bed each night. Jean doesn’t get my message when I do that, so it’s a lost cause. Still, I do it just in case one day it clicks in his brain.

Said boy is sitting cross-legged next to me as I cheer on Mexico. He’s not watching the game, but he’s listening. Instead, he’s drawing on a piece of printer paper. He’s drawing out the members of Mexico’s team. They’re smiling, all of them, huddled in this big group picture. It looks like a real photo they could’ve taken, just in grey graphite. If all the players were that happy, I’m sure they’d be real champions, because there are a few who never smile for the camera. Ever.

I hear some of Mama’s friends commenting on how well Jean draws. ‘Maybe when he’s older he can go to an art school’ is what a lot of them whisper to each other. I’m not sure why they’re being so hush-hush about it. I’m pretty certain Jean can hear them. I see the corners of his mouth lifted in a small smile.

Yeah, he can hear them.

I shake my head, laughing. Papa taps me on the shoulder. We’re about to get the food out for the guests, so I need to help. Jean stays where he’s at, which is fine. I get up and head to the kitchen. There’s platters of cuisine: tamales, stacks of quesadillas, carne asada, bowls of tortilla chips and dip, flautas; you name it, we probably have it here somewhere.

I worry slightly about Jean. I’m worried that he won’t like what we’re serving. His palate is pretty bland, in my opinion. We once had chorizo for breakfast. Jean wouldn’t touch it at all after the first bite. I guess there were too many spices in it. I’m accustomed to it, though. It’s an acquired taste.

Mama, Papa and I use the kitchen table as a buffet area. When there’s no more room, we use the kitchen counter for the rest. Not too shabby, I think. As soon as I peel back the aluminum foil from the trays and bowls, our party flocks in my direction.

I stand back, handing paper plates and plastic utensils to them. I’m glad they’re interested in the food, but I’m also a little panicked at the same time. Will we have enough food for everyone? I don’t know how much an average adult eats in one sitting. Mama and Papa always watch what they eat, too. Jean and I are still children. Well, I’m actually considered a tween, but…

As if he was born to prove me wrong, Jean eats everything given to him. I pucker my lips at him, and he gives me this ‘look what I did’ point at his licked-clean dish. Jean can be snarky when he wants to. I tsk, grabbing myself a plate. I’m glad he likes the food. He’s a growing boy, so he needs the protein. He’s become so skinny. Any skinnier and he’s look like a skeleton. I’m concerning myself about his weight and, in turn, spoon some carne asada and guacamole just for him. I’ll make him eat it even if he refuses. But he doesn’t refuse, practically inhaling the meat covered in mashed avocado.

Just then, Mexico scores a goal and I almost cough up a taquito. The whole apartment is filled with cheers. Jean twitches nervously. I stare at him, and he stares back. My face breaks into a grin and we resume eating. Jean pets the blue seahorse, Marci, on her (his... its?) head like he’s trying to comfort the stuffed animal, just like I do with him when he can’t seem to calm down from one of the crying fits he gets time to time. He usually bats away my hand when I do that, though.

Jean climbs into my bed at some point during the party and falls promptly asleep. I stay up until most of the guests are gone. I shower quickly, not bothering to dry my hair properly with the blowdryer. I tip-toe into my room after kissing Mama and Papa goodnight, but Jean’s no longer sleeping. He’s moved from my bed to the air mattress. So, it’s my turn to sleep on my own bed. My shoulders relax, ready for a peaceful, comfortable night. But first, I crouch next to Jean. He hands me Marci. I take the seahorse in my arms, cradling it.

“Marci wants you,” Jean says. He’s been talking more, although still a little robotically. He’s still getting the feel for intonations that my family and I understand.

I rock the stuffed animal back and forth. “Hi Marci,” I pause. Jean’s waiting for me to go on. “Long day, huh?” Jean looks pleased, so I give the seahorse back to him. “You know, Mexico won today.”

“They won against South Korea,” Jean confirms.

“Mhmm,” I hum. “It was three to one,”

Just then, my papa knocks on the door. “Lights out,” he says, all sing-songy. He doesn’t sound strict, but he means it.

I give Jean a ‘sorry’ look and climb into my bed. Before tucking himself in, he sets Marci on my desk. Once he’s under the blankets, I switch off the light. I toss and turn for a while, not able to find a good position to lay in. I find myself on my side, facing Jean’s way. There. That’s better. I hear him stir a little.

“June thirteenth,” he murmurs.

I whisper back, “Okay?” It’s a little off-topic, but yes, today is June 13th, the first match for Mexico’s team.

“Three days until June sixteenth,”

I nod into my pillow. “Oh yeah, Brazil’s playing against Morocco that day.”

Silence.

Then...

“Three days until Marco’s birthday.” Jean’s voice lowers to a whisper as I’m drifting off to La La Land.

 

Sure enough, the days fly and it’s the morning of my birthday. I’m woken up by someone shaking my left arm. I crack open my eyes, squinting. I’m still tired, but my mind tells me I’ve had enough rest. Right in my face is Jean. I panic, sitting up abruptly. How he manages to dodge my thick skull is a miracle. His face is lit up comparably bright for a morning so early as this. The fog is still rolling over the city; it’s grey and unfriendly. It takes me a while to figure out why Jean’s sitting on my knees, hands bracing himself on my thighs, his face so close to mine that I can feel him breathe out of his little nostrils.

My face flushes.

“Happy birthday, birthday boy!” My mama comes running into the room, hugging me instantly. Jean pushes away. Papa follows, giving me a big, warm hug. He blesses me in Spanish. I smile politely.

“Um, thank you,” is all I can say. My brain is still catching up with the rest of my body.

I look at Jean. He smiles, scooching closer again. He scoots himself towards me until he’s in the same position as before, but this time his weight is more on my calves than on my knees. I sigh in relief, because it would hurt if I tried to bend one of them.

Then he opens his mouth, “Happy birthday, Marco.” God, he’s so cool when he speaks.

I grin, “Thanks, Jean.” Then I’m hugging him, and he hugs back with the same amount of force.

I want to watch the Copa since Brazil is playing today, but Papa refuses (though he ends up recording it for me after I beg more than twice). Apparently, my family, Jean and I are going some place for two or three days. My mama said we’re going to stay at my aunt's house while we’re there. I can only guess we’re driving to Ensenada or Southern Cali. That’s where my relatives live. So I empty my rucksack, filling it with enough clothes for the trip. I snatch my pencil case from the desk and stuff one of the empty notebooks I have from last school year’s supplies. When Jean gets bored, he can at least draw something while we drive to… wherever we’re going.

When everyone is packed, we roll out our stuff and walk to the train station. Papa pays for the tickets, and I get a glimpse at the destination before Jean does. Well, he doesn’t seem very interested in the whole ticket-buying transaction anyway. It looks like we’re headed for Los Angeles. Maybe there’s some sight-seeing we’re going to do in Hollywood. Or could it be… Universal Studios? That would be really cool.

As we board the train, Jean calls dibs on the window seat, which I gladly give him. He can get a good look at the scenery that way. He gasps aloud when we start moving, watching the town disappear behind us. Marci sits in between me and Jean. There’s quite a distance from San Francisco to Los Angeles. It’s like a whole fourteen or so hours’ worth of sitting around and doing nothing for the most part. I try not to slouch in my chair, but it’s hard not to when there really isn’t anything I can do.

But the first three hours passes by like a blink of an eye. Papa passes out, his head resting on my mama’s shoulder. I distract myself by watching out the window like Jean, but it only lasts for so long. It gets pretty boring after a while. I don’t know what he sees there, but it’s definitely something that I can’t see. What he notices and gets out of staring out a window is a total mystery.

I have no clue where I’m spending my birthday and the next few days in Los Angeles. The World Cup is in France this year, making it the chance of going to Europe to see the game slim to impossible. Too bad, I’d been hoping on that. My mind wanders back to where we might be going: maybe Legoland? Seaworld? I mean, Jean really likes seahorses apparently and I’ve always wanted to watch live dolphins and orcas perform in shows.

Sometime during my internal monologue I doze off, waking up again when Jean grasps my hand. It’s lunch time, and Mama’s got some sandwiches she made just before we left. I try pulling away from Jean, but he holds on tighter. I really don’t know what’s up with him.

“What is it?” I purse my lips.

“Nothing,” But there’s something bothering him. He squirms in his seat.

“Spill,” I say, but he doesn’t. He shuts his eyes closed like he’s doing his best to hold something in. His cheeks inflate when I poke his arm. Just like a pufferfish.

Mama makes this little laugh in the palm of her hand. Oh my God, I’m pretty sure they know something that I don’t. She waves it away as if her little outburst was visible, and removes Papa’s head from her shoulder. She digs out some sandwiches wrapped in aluminum foil before we left, handing one to me. I take it, unwrapping the food like a Christmas, no, birthday present. Inside are two halves of a sandwich; one for me and one for Jean.

“Hungry?”

Jean nods enthusiastically, stealing the sandwich slice I’d been eyeing for at least ten seconds. I resist the urge to pout, but the only thing I can do now is suck it up and accept it. That’s pretty much how I handle things nowadays. I breathe in, hold it, and then breath out slowly.

The sun beats down on our locomotive. It’s getting really stuffy in here because the train doesn’t have any windows that can open. I guess it’s so no gets hurt or falls out while we’re moving. I’m not really one to complain, but the heat is really getting to me. I fan myself with the notebook I packed until Jean pokes me in the rib until I give up.

He sketches out scenery with a red pen. Well, at least I think he’s drawing scenery. I don’t know for sure. Jean’s hiding the notebook from me, clutching it close. He’s got his skinny chicken legs laying across my lap. Even the reflection in the window is too poor to make out the stuff he has down on the paper.

* * *

“ _Tía_!” My butt hurts from from sitting for so long, but I ignore the discomfort and run to my aunt for a big hug. I’m smothered by kisses from her.

We all cram into the small car my uncle owns. Jean sits on my lap, the seat belt strapped around us. I doubt it’ll save us if we get into an accident, but it’s nice that my papa thinks it will. We park in front of a small house a few minutes later. I help take the luggage to the guest room, which is really just my relative’s office room cleared up to make room for us. Jean is unusually still, soaking in all the new surroundings.

His light brown eyes shine when he lays them upon a big easel in the back room. I almost forgot, my aunt loves to paint. He gallops toward it. There’s so many colors splattered on the canvas’ surface: violets, oranges, yellows, green, blue. But no red.

I follow close behind, just to make sure he doesn’t dip his fingers into the paint bottles so he can ‘fix’ the piece my aunt is working on. Jean skims his finger pads against the dried colors, tracing over the gentle strokes and overall shape of the abstract figure my aunt has painted. His face is full of wonder, carefully studying the painting. His eyes flick back and forth, from the blue to the oranges, then from yellows to violet. I can tell he knows his primary and secondary colors by heart. Every one of them. I find it amazing.

“ _I see your friend likes it_ ,” I turn to face my aunt. She always speaks to me in Spanish, just so I can keep ties with my culture. Jean takes no notice to her.

“Mhmm,” I hum. An idea strikes me. “Hey, Jean, do ya wanna paint?” I remember the times I would finger paint with tempera on scraps of broken-down cardboard boxes when my family and I would go down to Ensenada.

Jean gasps enthusiastically. That’s a yes.

“Can we, _tía_? Please?” I give her this puppy-eyed look I learned as a preschooler even though I’ve just turned fourteen at twelve this morning.

My aunt snorts at my expression, but approves and moves to get Jean and me some supplies. She comes back with two small canvases, tanned this brown shade that reminds me of tea or sugary coffee. Unfortunately, we don’t have two easels. I know Jean just _has_ to use an easel, or he won’t be happy with his piece. I have a feeling. I set my tanned canvas on the tiled floor, taking the white and blue paint with me. Jean helps my aunt remove her artwork from the easel so he can set up his while I find a pan to pour the color into. I open up all the drawers, looking for one of those turkey pans made of cheap metal or something that you can chuck into the trash after you’re done cooking the meat. They’re lodged between two cereal containers at the top of the fridge.

I jump, just missing it by a few inches. Aw, I know I can get it! Just a little more… I bend my knees, pushing myself off from the balls of my feet. My hand comes in contact with the edge of the pans. I clutch it as I land, holding it to my chest when,

“Oww!” I yell as the cereal boxes topple over and lands on the crown of my head and shoulders. 

Cereal bounces and slides across the floor. A single Cheerio rolls and stops at my friend’s feet. Jean stares at me from the doorway of the back room, then laughs. He laughs airily, his little head tilting back. I sweep the cereal aside with my foot, carefully avoiding it when I cautiously and carefully walk back to the room. My aunt cleans up the mess before I can even set down the pans by the paints. She reasons that I shouldn’t be doing any work because it’s my birthday.

But I wanted to help fix my mistake, I think but don’t put into actual words.

Jean gets started; he’s already breaking out the paint. He uses his fingers, dipping them in red. He brushes his fingertips on the tanned canvas, painting the outline of his piece. He’s sticking his behind out, bending his knees and balancing on the balls of his feet. I squint down at my own project.

What am I going to do? I really have no clue, so I crouch in front of it. It’s as if I expect it to paint itself. And then I reach for the white paint. Squeezing the bottle, it squirts out with a funny squelching noise into the turkey pan. I coat my hand in it, the cold medium on my palm. When all the excess drips from my skin, I direct my hand to the canvas, and press it down. Here goes nothing.

I never really planned what I was going to do, actually. I’m improvising, stamping my hand down once in white, then withdrawing it. Huh, it didn’t come out exactly how I imagined it (if I even did). I didn’t spread out my fingers as wide as I hoped I would. Huh. I should probably wash my hands now. The paint is slowly starting to dry.

A mischievous grin spreads over my face. I slide two digits over the back of Jean’s fair neck. The white paint spreads smoother than spreading mayonnaise on sandwich bread against his skin. 

He shrieks, flailing, losing his balance. Jean would’ve smashed his face right into his painting if I hadn’t snaked my arms around his torso last minute. He hangs there like a ragdoll for a few seconds. When I let him go, Jean sits down on the floor, staring straight ahead of him. I didn’t think it was that bad of a shock I gave him, but what do I know? Sometimes he gets so stuck in his imagination that whatever happens to affect him scares the bejeezus right outta his bones.

Unbeknownst to me, he strikes back. The acrylic paints Jean’s using fly at me in strings of color. It splats onto my face, my shirt, even my shorts. I stand there, red and white all over me.

“Jean! Marco!” My papa shouts from the living room before I can get back at my friend. “We’re going to dinner in five minutes!”

“Okay, Papa,” I respond. Jean smirks.

Ohh, he’s going to get it now. I grip him by the wrist, plunging his hand into some blue paint. He screams, giggling in between, and I smush it sloppily right next to my handprint on the canvas in white. He shakes my hand off, attacking me with his blue fingers. They crawl over my chin, across the expanse of my freckled cheeks, twisting themselves into my hair. I fight back, pressing white covered palms to his mouth, slipping onto the column of his throat. I roll us over so that I’m on top, smearing paint into Jean’s face. We’re both squealing at each other like pigs.

Papa has to pry me off of my friend, sending me to the kitchen sink while Jean uses the bathroom to clean up. I’m able to get the blue from my face, but the paint still sticks to my hair. I comb it into a side part. It’ll just have to do for tonight until I can take a shower.

Jean and I go to my little ‘birthday’ dinner; me, with streaks of blue-colored hair, and Jean, some white paint still smeared on the back of his neck.

* * *

We ready ourselves early, the clock barely ticking seven. Jean’s still yawning, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. I slip a tank top over my head, Jean following slowly after. He waddles to the bathroom, pulling down his pajama pants. I see his tan line, fair skin graduating not-so-smoothly into whiter-than-paste skin. My face goes red.

“Jean!” I croak, pulling the door shut. The copper doorknob rattles as I peel my hand away. I catch it last-minute before it falls off and clatters to the ground. I’m able to sort of screw it on again. I test it, turning the knob but not opening it. It works. Whew.

“Close the door next time!” I say quickly.

And then comes the embarrassment of seeing my friend’s butt. I don’t know why I’m so embarrassed but, nevertheless, I’m covering my face with my palms. My cheeks grow hotter when I think back on Jean’s ridiculous farmer’s tan, if you can even call it that. Ugh, can’t blame him though. We got back really late last night. Anyone can tell Jean isn’t a morning person.

My birthday dinner was long, which resulted in drawing on the butcher paper covering the tables with the children's crayons the waitress gave Jean and macaroni flinging by me. I couldn’t help it. Jean started it with one of his little staring games, anyway. I splatted macaroni elbows onto his neatly sketched-out skyscraper building on the tabletop.

A birthday cake was brought to me on a super-hot plate congratulating me in big, loopy letters written in ruby-like liquid sugar. Everyone sang to me. My mama and papa, my aunt and uncle, Jean; even the waitress. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say after, opting to cut the cake and serve everyone a piece as an act of gratitude. We stayed there until it was near closing time and, by then, Jean and I were about to pass out from pure exhaustion.

Which we did, once the bed was made and I got under the blankets. Mama and Papa slept on the queen mattress while Jean and I shared the floor. A thick bedspread sheet was laid out over the carpeting, pillows for both of us, and each a blanket for ourselves. A whole family (plus friend) in one room.

As soon as Jean comes out of the bathroom, I really have to pee. I make a beeline for the toilet, slamming and locking the door. I’m pretty sure the doorknob came off on the other side again because, when I relieve myself, the reverberating sound of metal bouncing off tile follows the stream of urine hitting the porcelain of the toilet. All I’m concentrated on right now is aiming correctly, though. I’ll put the doorknob back on again afterwards.

Mama rushes us out to the car when I waddle into the kitchen. She presses two granola bars into my hand, telling Jean and me to buckle up and eat during our road trip. Jean buckles himself into the seat on the left, me on the right. I scarf down the bar, barely tasting the oats covered in peanut butter and sweet molasses. Inside, I’m jumping up and down like a little kid. Even Jean seems excited; a little grin and slightly raised eyebrows lights up his whole face.

The car engine starts up, sputtering at first, then sounding a little more normal. We take off to our destination. It’s called something like ‘the happiest place on earth’. Or something. I can’t even give into my tiredness to conk out in the car. I’m too pumped up to see what awaits me.

Lo and behold, an hour later we’re standing in line for the trams outside of the Disney parking lot. Not Universal Studios, not Legoland, not even Seaworld. No, none of that. We’re here at _Disneyland_ of all places. Out of everywhere in the world, Mama, Papa, Jean and I are at _Disneyland_. Is this why Jean was squirming around in the train.

I never imagined I’d even get close to stepping a foot into Disneyland property. Not only is it super time-consuming to get there, but the tickets are so, _so_ pricey. I don’t even know how my parents were able to pay for Disneyland for both me _and_ Jean.

...I’m not dreaming, am I?

I know I’m not because Jean suddenly yanks me into the tram, plopping my bottom down on a seat next to him. My jaw hangs open as I absorb all the new sights and sounds, just like Jean does from time to time. Even waiting for our tickets to get checked and waiting to get into the gates of Disneyland is oh-so interesting to me. Jean is my only anchor keeping me from floating off into the air like a balloon in glee.

I take a park map, attempting to read it. I ask Jean which rides he wants to go on first, but he tells me that it’s up to me and that he ‘doesn’t really mind’. We decide on something called Thunder Mountain, which turns out to be an old steam train-like rollercoaster. Mama and Papa wait for us somewhere near in the Old Town section of Disneyland. From my place in line, I can make out the gist of the ride: the old train starts at the top of the tracks in a mining shack, then coasts off into a cave. Somewhere at the end, it speeds through what looks like a river or a stream that shoots jets of water behind the passengers. Their screams makes me want to shout too. Ugh, I’m so nervous. The train rushes past us again.

“Oh my God, did you see that, Jean?” I cry, pointing to a tall guy flailing his arms around in the air as he screams. Jean makes no response.

We finally get to the train stop, ready for boarding. I climb into the seat, Jean scrambling in next to me. The safety bars come over our laps, locking us in place. A cast member comes around to check the equipment, then we’re all set. There’s no turning back now.

The carts start rolling forward just as my body starts receiving the panic signals my brain is feeding it. I’ve... I’ve never actually been on a rollercoaster before...

Jean pries my hand off the safety bar and slides his smaller hand in mine. He squeezes it hard. If I had paid attention, I wouldn’t have even let those four stupid words come out of my mouth: “Jean, are you sc---,”

Just then, the rollercoaster blasts down into the darkness of a cave, catching me in the middle of my sentence. My coherent sentence turns into a scream as we go up and down, side to side, pushed to the side of the cart, then back to the middle. My guts dare to lurch out of my throat and onto the cart in front of us.

We emerge from the darkness, into the bright sun. The wind blows in my face, causing me to squint. The rollercoaster forces us into the back of our seats as we descend quickly. We’re back into the darkness, then out again, in again, and out once more. I scream louder, as loud as I can get when we take a sharp turn left, barely missing the arch constructed above our heads. Jean’s probably screaming too; if the sound of the wind in my ears wasn’t so deafening, I’m sure I could hear him.

The rollercoaster drops, swiveling around the curb. My lungs feel as though they’re about ready to pop. Nervous moths in my esophagus shred me inside-out. Water sprays out behind us as we make it down the hill successfully, going back up again. We’re reaching the end of the ride.

As the ride slows down, I’m not sure what to do. Jean’s hand is no longer in mine. We must have stopped holding hands a while ago. All the adrenaline in me makes me want to laugh. I want to cry at the same time. We get out, but something about Jean doesn’t seem right. I furrow my brows. 

“Jean?” He sticks himself to the railing, chin trembling.

Groaning, I squirm through the line of people. Curious glances and rude stares bore through my back as I reach for him slowly, like I always do before giving him a hug. He bats my hand away, breathing harsh. My head tilts to the side. He’s never done something like that before. He’s always okay with my touches. He never pushes me away… until now. There’s obviously something not right. He sprints down the stairs, out into the lines of people waiting for their turn. I catch up to him in time.

“Are you okay?” My mouth is on auto-pilot. “Jean, are you alright? You’re not sick, are you? No way, you can’t have a fever, Jean. No, never mind, but dude. You can’t just leave me in the dust like that. Come on, let’s go.” He shakes his head furiously, not buying it. He doesn’t want to let go of the wall. He doesn’t even want to move from his place. “Jean…” He refuses. “Jean, please.” No avail.

We’re drawing attention to ourselves, and I’m getting frustrated. Why does Jean have to act so weirdly, especially on the day of _my_ birthday celebration? I clench my teeth and pull him toward me before he can retaliate. I stomp away from the attraction, all the way to the middle of the Old Town scene.

Jean peels himself from my grip, clearly dissatisfied. He scowls, looking at the ground. I do the opposite, tilting my head to the sky. Annoyance is clearly itching in the back of my brain. How can Jean be so inconsiderate at such a time like this?

“Bye,” He turns on his heel and, with that, he’s off. Gone from my sight. He’s not coming back, even as I stay in the same place for over a few minutes.

“Jean! No, wait!”

I mutter under my breath, “Shit,” and take off, in search of Jean. This is the first time I’ve actually sworn without feeling guilty about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any kudos or comments are very much appreciated!  
> Let me know how I did; I'd love to hear your feedback.
> 
> Guess I'll see you again later! :P


	3. Catch-22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Speak now, or forever hold your peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, how have you been?  
> We're finally going to start picking up the pace in here, which I am terribly glad for because I've got much more in store for Marco and... well, primarily Marco, but also Jean as well. Either the chapter after the next chapter or three chapters from now, the rating may or may not go up to Explicit.  
> I notice that my new chapters usually come out around the second week of each month, so I think I'll keep it like that until my schedule eases up and I'm able to write more during the, well, um, nighttime (since that's when the creative juices start flowing). Just giving you a heads up here.
> 
> Kudos for you if you can figure out the time setting when Marco turns fourteen! I've put great detail into the last chapter, so take a look at it and see if you can pinpoint the date.
> 
> I've got a [tumblr](http://legit-skaenka.tumblr.com/) and an unfortunate [twitter](http://twitter.com/Legit_Skaenka).

“Jean!”

My throat is beginning to go dry, my voice hoarse from calling out his name.

He had disappeared somewhere in the crowd, suddenly gone from my grasp. Jean turned away from me as I groaned in frustration, leaving me behind after Thunder Mountain. He was the one freaking out first. Now, I’m the one freaking out, pulling at my hair and running around like a madman.

“Jean!” I scream. “Where are you?” Oh my God.

So much for ‘the happiest place on earth’.

I race through a jungle-themed section, animatronic tigers growling and elephants tooting their trunks. Tarzan yells out his primitive, strangely opera-like territory call in the background. I try my best not to shove anyone out of the way, but it really can’t be helped. I need to find Jean. My chest hurts just thinking about losing him, even though Disneyland is deemed a fairly safe place. But still. _Still_.

Mama and Papa are in the middle of enjoying some California sun by the manmade river-lake thing that all the boats and ships sail across when I find them. I pant out my situation; how Jean and I went on Thunder Mountain, how he suddenly went batty, and now I’m screaming my head off looking for him. They’re concerned, obviously, as much as I am. Even more so, apparently, because we huddle up.

“We should notify the employees,” Papa looks like he’s going to man the plan, but he’s not. “Then we’ll look for Jean as a group.”

“No!” I snap. My parents look shocked at my outburst. I’m not actually sure I mean ‘no’ myself. “N-no, we can split up. Notify the cast members, then split up. We’ll meet back here in forty minutes. If we go together on a search team, we’ll be stuck in the craziness of the crowd and won’t get anywhere.”

Papa sighs. Mama brushes back her bangs in distress. Finally, my papa speaks up, “Right.” He says slowly, “Then… then we’ll find him eventually.”

We break, and I sprint. I start my mantra of calling Jean’s name again, this time asking on-goers if they’ve seen him. Everyone I ask shakes their head, apologizing; some wish me luck.

At some point, I pass the spinning teacups and the creepy whale-like tunnel that eats up boats with all the passengers on it. The lazy green eye bats at me as I search for Jean. The lanterns hanging above on wires of strong metal make me feel as if I’m lost in this crazy ‘where’s Jean?’ labyrinth that may as well go on forever. My head is spinning, my throat burning from breathing so hard.

It only causes me to dive deeper into the insanity, becoming more and more visibly agitated. Instead of me pushing people out of my way, they all seem to part like Moses parted the Red Sea for some reason or another. I’m probably guessing it’s because of my ragged stride and hunched shoulders. The worry is radiating off of my body, acting like a barrier protecting me from the bubbly Disney atmosphere.

Toontown is everything but whacky. In fact, it’s disorientating. The disproportioned architecture gets me confused. I must have walked around the place twice before actually knowing that the scenery around me was repeating as I moved on in a circle.

I make my way out of Lunatic Town, charging for Tomorrowland. The spaceships whiz past me as I run. I’m looking in every nook and cranny that would seem like a good place to hide from the crowd, but Jean’s not anywhere to be found. It worries me further; what if I never find him? What then?

I jumble the thought so it’s no longer a coherent sentence, only bits and pieces of letters and words. There’s no way I’m going to get caught up in my own mind; make myself go crazy. And then a big building rotating stands in front of me. ‘Innovations’ or something of that sort. Running into it is my blond friend. He turns his head to measure how far I am before I can catch up to him.

“Jean!” I chase after my friend, entering Innovations.

This building is filled with all types of weird future gadgets and stuff, the air conditioner blasting on high to keep everything at a chilled temperature so it won’t overheat or something. The building turns, the exit out of site now. Jean’s somewhere in this weird place. I mean, I saw him go left.

I squeeze through the supposed laundry room, tripping over others’ feet more than once. This place is _packed_! I never thought such a showcase-like building would be so interesting. Apparently, it is for a lot of people.

The kitchen is void of Jean, and the gaming room upstairs is too. I bite at my lips; I want to scream Jean’s name in frustration and anger, just like Captain Kirk did with Khan.

Why the hell Jean’s making it so hard for me to find him is a total mystery. Obviously, we’re not playing hide and go seek here. At least, to my knowledge… I realize, at this moment, that I’m the one getting lost here. I actually have no idea where I am right now in Innovations.

There’s a car on display, some digital tree’s branches lighting the way for me. I decide to keep walking forward. I should be able to find a wall somewhere, where I can get out. If Jean’s nowhere to be seen outside Innovations, he’s bound be trapped inside. At least from there, I can meet up with my parents and have the cast members get him out. I hope.

Oh, there’s the door. It’s turning the corner slowly; I have just enough time to jump through it and get out of this building without getting squished in between the building and its entrance.

One. Two... 

_Three._

I take a leap of faith, landing directly on the ramp that I first walked on to get into Innovations. I rerouted myself back to the meeting spot, going in circles once or twice around the spaceships because I got so caught up in the rush of people and their emotions, even though I’m not even associated with them.

I see Mama and Papa standing where we’re to meet up. From this far away, I can’t tell if they’re still worried or not. If they’re distressed or relieved to see me come back. If they’ve seen Jean anywhere. And then, as I get closer, I can see a hand clutching at the side of Mama’s skirt from behind.

My heart might as well palpitate; I hope it explodes.

I grab around my mother, tugging Jean forward, and hold his arm tight in my grip. A million feelings from within me boil up, and I’m steaming. Jean tried to pull back, begging me to let go, but I don’t. I’m using all my energy to control myself from slugging him in the face like one of the WWE boxers on TV. While he pleads me, my parents don’t do anything. It surprises me, because I know I’m bound to break one day and lash out at either them or Jean.

I clench my eyes shut, squeezing Jean’s arm _hard_. When he screams out, only then does Papa pull me away from my friend. My mama takes the chance to wrap her arms around Jean as he cries in pain. He jerks her away, holding his wrist.

“What are you thinking, Marco?” Papa whispers harshly. I know he doesn’t want this to be a big deal and cause unnecessary attention towards us.

Instead of replying, I clench my teeth. I admit it, I’m so pissed.

* * *

One more night at my aunt’s house, then we’re going back home to our dinky apartments in San Francisco. My aunt gives Jean and me the canvases we worked on wrapped up all nice and fancy, wishing us a safe trip. I keep up a smile just for her.

As much as we give each other pitiful looks, I refuse to talk to Jean. We sit across from each other this time on the train, Jean staring out the window as I watch his face change expressions every once in a while. We don’t utter a word, instead communicating minimally with our posture and raising of eyebrows. He shifts in his seat, itching at a spot on his shoulder. He ruffles his hair, looking at his blond bangs. They’re a really ashy color; his hair was like golden flax when I first met him. He doesn’t peep even once. My parents are silent, too. They’re strangely quiet for those who haven’t got any beef in this situation between Jean and me. We don’t even know why Jean decided to pull such a feat like that.

Mama does, however, let loose a tiny sigh every once in a while. Papa just directs his attention elsewhere in the train. Perhaps he’s watching the other passengers sleep or read or whatever else they’re doing.

We’re a traveling set of four people who don’t make a sound.

* * *

Jean’s coming to my school this year. He and I have new rucksacks, complete with a water bottle in one side pocket and a small box of lemonade in the other. How we were able to afford a new rucksack for me, now that’s something to wonder about. I’ve had the same rucksack since elementary school. To have a new _anything_ is a strange feeling.

I’m reusing the old notebooks that haven’t been completely filled up, though. I rip the already written-on pages out, saving them in a folder for who knows when I’ll need it. I leave the journal Jean drew in during our trip to Disneyland under my bed. I don’t want to think about it.

Jean’s father is taking us to school today. He has a car, so we don’t have to wait for the trolley and all that. It’ll save us some time taking the car, so we’re not late the first day.

“Marco! Are you ready?” Mama calls me from the living room.

I zip up my rucksack, heading to the front door so I can put on my shoes. “Yeah, Mama,”

She hugs me tight after I’ve tied my laces. “Have a good day at school,” she says.

I nod. “Bye,”

Jean’s waiting for me out in the hallway. His father’s locking up the door to their apartment, a briefcase in one hand. I greet Mr. Kirstein, then wave briefly at Jean. He stares back. We say nothing after that.

Traffic isn’t as terrible as I would have thought, but it’s still backed up to a certain degree. Jean and I sit in the backseat, sending each other silent messages with our eyes.

_You okay?_

I just shake my head.

 _Are you mad at me?_ Jean quirks his left eyebrow.

Another shake. I’m not going to tell him.

His worried face says, _Marco…_

I stop looking at him, not ready to talk to him just yet. I haven’t said anything to him since we got back from Los Angeles. And yeah, I know that’s a long time. I haven’t talked to Jean since my birthday. The summer has been painful for both of us, I believe.

Mr. Kirstein clears his throat. We’re already in front of the school.

Oh. I blink before moving.

“Thank you, Mr. Kirstein. Have a good day,” I open the door, getting out of the car; I shut it closed after Jean climbs out after me.

Jean mutters, “Bye, Daddy,” My chest constricts then, but just a bit, when Mr. Kirstein purses his lips, raising his head a little more as a goodbye, then drives away from the curb.

I readjust the straps of my rucksack, then look at Jean. He starts walking to his class, so I follow him. My first day of eighth grade can wait.

Jean passes the main classrooms, through the little makeshift garden our school made last year, and all the way to the portables that I’ve never been in before. There are some kids playing near the door, throwing sticks at each other. They collect them off the ground when Jean comes closer and enters the classroom.

I stand outside as Jean’s greeted by his teacher. I’ve only seen her once or twice in my two years of middle school here. But isn’t she the one that takes care of the special ed kids? What’s Jean doing in her class? I stride away, confused.

I’ve got my elective class first: leadership. I relax when I see Connie from tumbling classes sitting close to the front, a chair empty next to him.

“Hey,” I say, eyeing the chair.

Connie pulls it out for me, giving me this wide smile. “Hi Marco,” I sit down. “How are ya?”

“Tired,” I reply. It sounds stupid, but I’m telling the truth.

“Aren’t we all?” He leans back, putting his hands flat on the desk in front of him. “Sasha, the girl from our summer season tumbling, came over last night and we had a gaming session,”

“Let me guess, was it _Alien_?” I ask.

“How’d you know?” Connie laughed. “Yeah, anyway, she was kind of mad that I beat her at it. But it _is_ my gaming console, so how could I not?”

“That’s so old though,” I say. “And the thing isn’t even yours. It’s your dad’s,”

“True, but he lets me use it,” he says matter-of-factly.

Connie’s the son of the Springers, who own a gaming arcade in San Francisco. He’s a really cool person, with a bright personality and can turn anything into a joke at any given time. Connie and I see each other mainly at tumbling practice, but our school schedules this year finally matched up so we have leadership together.

“So, do you like Sasha?” I’m mildly curious about Sasha, only because Connie looks so enthused that she came to visit him.

Connie slaps an open hand to his face. “Dude, I like her, but! Before you say anything, it’s not that I like-like her, but I like her. She’s cool. Not many girls agree to play _Alien_ , you know?”

“You always say it like that,” someone murmurs behind me. I turn around to face bright green eyes.

“Shut up, Berthold! You know what I mean!” Connie’s blushing, hiding his face from us.

Berthold then looks at me, I look at Berthold. I study his surreal, green eyes. They’re the type of bright, olive-green green that intrigues me, as well as pulls me in so that I would probably get lost in them. We both look at Connie, who writhes uncomfortably in his spot. Berthold’s the first one to start, and soon, we’re all laughing until the bell rings and we start class.

School isn’t bad at all. This year might be the best year because I have classes with my friends from last year. Connie finally introduces me to Berthold and his best friend, Reiner, after second period and we’re hanging by the lockers, eating brunch. I packed an apple from home so I didn’t have to wait in line for food.

“So,” Connie starts. “Even though you’ve already met, Marco, this is Berthold. Berthold, this is Marco. Say hi,”

I chuckle. “Hi, Berthold,”

“Nice to meet you,” he says. He sticks out a hand, so I shake it. He’s surprisingly tall for his age. And so is his friend, whom he directs his attention to. “And this is Reiner. He and I’ve been friends practically since day one,”

“Hey,” Reiner gives me a fist bump instead of a formal handshake. He has huge hands. “I think I saw you this morning, walking to the special ed’s room.”

“Oh geez, the special ed, _those_ strange kids,” two people cackle as they pass by.

“Uh,” I’m at a loss for words. Connie gives me a weird look. “Ah, uh, yeah. Just, checking out the school again,” I kind of lie through my teeth. “What were you doing over there?”

“I took care of the garden over the summer,” he explains. “I was checking up on it this morning when I saw you.” He looks at his watch. “Anyway…”

The rest of the day is so-so. All I can keep thinking about is Jean and special ed. Jean. Special ed. How did those go together? Why was he put in there, of all places? What qualified Jean to be with all the ‘strange kids’? So many questions bounce around in my head until I’m knocked out of my focus by a particular shove at lunchtime.

Well, not so much a shove, but a body scooting next to me at the table. Speak of the devil; it’s Jean. He grins at me, but only slightly. I have to remind myself that I’m not going to talk to him.

We open up our lunches. I have a sandwich: mozzarella and tomato with pesto spread like butter. Fancy, and something I wasn’t expecting.

As I’m about to take a bite, Jean uncovers the lid to his meal, revealing what looks like sausage and scalloped potatoes. Mustard is smeared in the corner of the tupperware, and I assume it’s for the meat. The cabbage next to the potatoes looks absolutely ghastly. Jean’s father must have grilled yesterday, which meant the food Jean has in his hands now are the leftovers from last night.

Jean pokes and prods at his sausage, but fails to put it anywhere near his mouth. After a while, I get tired of watching him play with his food; I haven’t even touched mine. I scoot my sandwich to him. He looks up, like he’s surprised or taken aback. I hold my laughter back, because he makes this little mouse-like face when he does that. It’s cute, and dorky. And so Jean.

I point with my chin, giving a little nod so he catches onto my idea of switching lunches with me. After what feels like an eternity, Jean slides his food to me, accepting my mozzarella-tomato-pesto sandwich. He takes a big bite out of it, savoring my food.

German cuisine is _not_ my favorite, but it’s something I’ve got to eat right now. It’s either too bland, too salty, or too sour for my taste buds. There’s never a balance; always on the extreme scale of something. Sadly, I think that’s the only think Jean’s father is able to cook, though. Or, more accurately, this is the only way Mr. Kirstein _knows_ how to cook.

The cabbage is fermented, making my lips pucker as I swallow it down my throat. I’m not even trying to pucker my lips, either. When I take a nibble at the sausage, the salt overwhelms me. I have to take the lemonade out of my rucksack to diffuse the flavor on my tongue. The mustard doesn’t help. It’s so potent that my nostrils burn when I breathe out of them. Nevertheless, I finish, with the potatoes successfully in my stomach at the end.

The lunch bell doesn’t ring until ten after, so I clean up and decide to join Berthold, Reiner and Connie out on the basketball courts. I feel like I’m betraying our friendship because I’m leaving Jean in the cafeteria without even a goodbye.

“Yo, Freckleface!” he welcomes me.

“‘Freckleface’?” I give him _the look_.

He smiles guiltily, “I don’t know,” he scratches his head. “It just kinda slipped out of my mouth is all. Besides, you _do_ have a lot of freckles,”

I roll my eyes, saying nothing in return. Connie tries making up for his mistake by buying me a vending machine soda.

The last class of the day finally rolls around. I’m in so-called ‘advanced’ German for middle-schoolers, but I have to say that there is no way in the entire world I’ll get a grasp on this language. It’s so unlike Spanish sometimes. I don’t understand their different cases; I’m always getting Accusative and Dative mixed up. Genitive is something I have absolutely no clue about.

The worksheets given to the class are all review, so I blast through them and wait until the final bell rings. And it does… eventually.

Time to pick up Jean. I take my good, ol’ time to Jean’s homeroom, admiring Reiner’s work on the school garden.

He really did a good job at it. Really. The plants are all pruned neatly, soil’s been raked through thoroughly; the rocks even looking like they’ve been polished or something. If I could take a guess, Reiner has a very green thumb. I can see it’s his passion even though I’ve only just met him this morning.

Someone’s rolling around on the floor near the rocks, because the dirt’s kicking up all over the place. My eyebrows knit together as I realize that it’s Jean and and a chocolate haired boy with fairly tanned skin smash one another into the ground. Oh God.

I wrap my arms from under Jean’s shoulders, hoisting him up and off of his opponent. He struggles, kicking and still throwing punches at the air. I prevent the other boy from hurting Jean by pushing him back in the dirt with my foot. He snarls at me, but I hold my ground and keep both him and Jean still until they calm down.

“Stop,” I command in my calmest voice. “Stop fighting,”

Jean knows to comply, hanging loosely in my grasp. I release him after counting to ten, which is mainly just for me so I won’t get angry and blow up the whole situation into something bigger than it’s not.

“Looks like your savior’s come to get you,” The boy picked himself from the floor, sneering at Jean.

“Shut up, Eren,” Jean spits, the wad pelting the earth.

I frown as Eren turns to me. “Dude, he needs some tissues for his anger management issues!”

“Shut _up_!”

“Quiet!” I snap, “Let’s go,” And haul Jean’s butt out of the school and into the trolley up the street.

As we start our journey home, I grimace. Cleaning off the back of Jean’s shirt with my hand, I huff quietly. God knows why Jean and Eren got into a who-can-pummel-the-other-hard-enough-first fist fight, and I’m thankful I was there to interfere before anyone really got hurt. This isn’t like Jean to be picking fights, let alone being very social, well, from my relationship with him for the past how many years of our life so far.

Jean and I climb the stairs to our floor. He never once looks up from staring at his feet, shuffling to his apartment. I follow him there, not eager to be separated just yet. He unlocks the door, not bothering to slip off his shoes. The dust rubs into the carpeting as he drags himself into his home. He flicks his eyes toward me, his mouth pursing into a thin line for a second. He opens up his lips, before shutting his mouth again, and I think he’s about to say something to me.

I get the wooden apartment door shut in my face instead.

* * *

When you meet my family, we seem like nice, sincere people who immigrated from Mexico to find a better life in the States. We seem so content with the conditions we live in now. But if you take all that sugar-coated glaze on the surface, who we really are will shock you.

Well, I’m not saying that we’re not sincere, or not nice for that matter. We’re very humble, very welcoming to almost everything. I mean, one time, my parents hosted another family hiding from the government in their house for a number of months before I was born. Who says we’re not nice? However, that’s not the point.

The point I’m making is that the Bodt family is _not perfect_ like everyone thinks we are. In fact, we can be quite the opposite at times. Especially when Mama and Papa argue about trivial things. That can lead to much more than just one topic...

Anger and annoyance is all my mother feels when she’s angry. Papa’s words are ricocheting off the wall, the sounds travelling into my ear canals. They’re fighting, screaming, arguing at each other while I’m stuck in my bedroom, the door closed on them. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want to be stuck in this situation.

“If you’re going to be all ho-hum and golly-me about it,” I hear my mama yell something half in comprehensible English. I can’t understand the rest, her voice thankfully muffled from the door.

Next is my papa’s deep tone, loud and unwavering. “So you go and beat me over the head for it? This is ridiculous! This isn’t my fault!”

“But I’m not! I’m not your enemy!” Mama shouts.

“I’m not _saying_ you are,” comes the reply. “If you’re venting with me, then it’s fine. But if you’re yelling at me then, no, _no bueno_ ,”

I could laugh at my father’s sarcastic silliness, but I don’t. I rustle under my blankets, pushing my face further into the pillow. The scent of my own head from the pillow cover invades my nostrils. Tears are building under my eyelids, threatening to spill onto my cheeks. Damned sniffles have my nose all clogged up. My cheeks are burning from the rush of emotions whirling in me all at once. My ears are ringing in the short pauses of silence in between my parents’ fight.

I never wanted this to happen. The suggestion of ‘it’s all my fault’ places itself nicely into the insecurity spot of my brain.

“This is too much for me; it’s too much for you…” Mama’s pissed. She’s going on one of her unending rants.

“Yes, but…”

“So why do we keep doing this?!” is my mama’s question. I’ve heard it many times before. I know where this is headed. “I might as well just leave,”

“Think about our son!” Papa roars over my mama. “If you leave now, what’s going to happen to Marco?”

If I could dig my own hole, climb into it and seal it with a rock, I would. I absolutely _despise_ this part of my parents’ arguments. What hits me the hardest is when my mama will say she loves me, and that’s why she’ll leave. ‘It benefits everyone in the end’ is her conclusion. I think otherwise. I don’t want her to go; if she leaves, it’ll destroy me.

“He’ll be fine,” She’s not even hesitating. “You’re more than enough for him,”

“Defina…” My papa uses Mama’s name in a pleading manner.

“No, Ferdinand! Don’t tell me that he’s only a child and needs both of his parents to survive!” Mama gets a little angrier. “I will leave!”

There’s a series of thunking and clunking. I presume it’s my mama taking out the luggages from the closet across from the kitchen. Papa yells at her things in Spanish I probably shouldn’t be hearing or having any knowledge of. Mama’s threatening him, describing the items she’s stuffing into the suitcase. I’m slightly horrified when both Papa and I get a good image of an interesting, pink contraption that my parents have apparently used once or twice in bed during their honeymoon.

“You know what?” Mama says, “You can keep it! Never mind!” She sounds almost wicked. The thing falls to the carpet with a dull thump.

As much as I want to cry, I also want to laugh at how ridiculous my Mama’s acting. She’s never this absurd, not unless she’s about to go out of her mind. Papa’s voice has dwindled down to silence. I can imagine that he’s got his head in his hands as he sits on the coffee table in our dinky living room, painted a horrid sunflower yellow.

Only when I hear the suitcase’s wheels clack against the kitchen title do I become frantic and fling my covers across the room, slamming the door open so I can burst into the living room, stomping to the kitchen.

“Marco?”

I hug Mama close, putting my head into her shoulder. I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not… Sobs rack my body, and Mama has to peel me off of her like a starfish. She looks me in the eyes, and I swear I can see her soul, wailing. Somewhere, the words ‘don’t leave me’ slip from my lips.

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “I’m not going anywhere. It’s alright now,”

Papa tip-toes silently into the master bedroom, clicking the door shut as mother and son cry together. I question why my parents are still together, because they don’t get along as well as they used to anymore.

You see, Mama was both born and raised in Ensenada, Mexico in a family of three children. she’s the middle child, constantly battling between her siblings for toys, clothes, and their parents’ attention. She had to take responsibility of the household when her father died of cancer.

Her siblings gave her slack for it, constantly poking her in the sides with snide remarks and angsty attitudes. When Mama met my papa, that’s when she realized all she wanted was out.

Papa had been travelling with some friends when he met Mama. He and his friends hopped into his old junker car in faraway Panama and drove all the way to Mexico. How they did it, I don’t know, because Papa wouldn’t go into detail about that the last time I asked him.

They met at a dance club, the one Mama always loved to go to but had to sneak out of the house at night, bribing her sister with some type of new mascara or something. Papa said the music was too loud and the lights were too spazzy there. He was about to leave and ditch the place when my mama, who was a teenager at the time, bumped into him while grooving out to the beat.

He described her like an angel and all these things I don’t really remember because it’s kind of been a long time since he’s told me this story. To put it simply, he fell in love with her at first sight, and they fled and got married. A couple of years later, Mama and Papa moved to America, got their green cards, hid a family in the apartment for a time, and had me. My aunt and uncle from Papa’s side eventually moved to Los Angeles. Ever since then, Mama, Papa and I have been living in this rickety old apartment complex and we can barely afford the rent each month.

Which brings us back to the whole reason why Mama wants to leave. She hates the fact that we don’t have enough money for luxury items that she thinks are important. She dislikes how we’re living in conditions that don’t stand high enough for her taste.

And she _loathes_ how Papa can’t get a stable job.

But neither of them can support themselves if they leave the house now. Mama and Papa both know that. So, here we are, stuck in the apartment complex. If Mama leaves, she’d probably end up on the streets. When she stays, she’s bound to fight with Papa. There’s no happy end; it’s a Catch-22.

And right now, my _life_ is a Catch-22.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Critique, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!  
> Let me know how I did, whether you like it or not, and if you have any suggestions for this story. I'm open to talking with you.
> 
> Remember, Freckled Jesus died for your Jeans.


	4. Abandon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Why?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SORRY, everyone, for being such a terrible person. I left this fic on hiatus for a _long-ass_ time. Life got suuuper busy after I updated back in October, and they've only just begun to cool down a little bit before I have to start a new life in LA.  
>  Anyhow, TotS is picking back up again, and should be updating like it normally should.
> 
> Thanks for supporting TotS even through my time of hardship and absence. I really hope this will an enjoyable read for you.
> 
> Also, please note, this has a lot of bad feeling in it. It's not exactly a sweet piece of pie like it was before in the previous chapters. The next update will push the rating to explicit, and will stay there as Marco grows older in this fic.
> 
> With that being said, I hope you enjoy this new installment of TotS! I love y'all! <3

I’m wrecked inside.

This unsettling feeling in my gut doesn’t dissipate, even after it’s been months since the big fight Mama and Papa had. The tension is still present between them. I worry, constantly. At school, I shove it down so no one sees me struggling. But it gnaws at my insides come lunchtime. The last two classes of the day are when I feel the worry consuming me.

What I worry about, I can’t really say. Perhaps it’s the fear that one of my parents will abandon me. Or maybe I’m worried about our family dynamics. We can’t survive without one another; if either Mama or Papa left, we’d all be on the streets. Or maybe I’m worried because I’m choosing to lose a friend; break off our friendship like we have no childhood memories with each other.

All these thoughts swirl around in my head over and over and _over_ again until I’m staring catatonic at the wall, sometimes biting my lip so hard that I actually bleed. I don’t feel too much of the pain, though. I only know that I’ve hurt myself when I taste the coppery blood my tongue laps up when I lick my lips.

Mama still treats me like I’m a little child, cooing and speaking in a soothing tone whenever she’s talking to me. I think she’s concerned, and tries to comfort me, even though she never brings up why.

“It’s sweater weather,” Connie says one day, looking up at the sky. There’s some dark rainclouds coming our way.

“I think you mean ‘stormy weather’,” I correct him, shaking my head.

"Naw, dude. I mean it," He lets the breeze blow his almost nonexistent hair. "It's chilly enough for one."

I roll my eyes at him. "Connie, what are you getting at?"

He shrugs. "I dunno. I just want an excuse to wear sweaters to school. Whatever,"

“Whatever,” I repeat him like a parrot. He slaps me on the shoulder, cracking me a smile.

“So, how’s your friend?” he asks me.

“Huh? Which one?” If he’s asking me about Berthold, he shouldn’t be, because we see him and Reiner every day in leadership.

Connie says, “No, Marco. Your blond friend with the brown eyes.”

Shoot, he’s talking about Jean. “T-there’s a lot of blond-haired, brown-eyed people I know,” I try to play it cool, as if I don’t know who he’s referring to.

“Pff, I know _that_ ,” Connie says like it’s nothing. “I mean your blond friend who you used to walk with back from school. How’s he doing?”

I’m silent for a while. That’s a good question. I don’t know how Jean’s doing, and if he still considers me as a friend. I haven’t talked to Jean for months now, even though we’re in the same apartment complex. Occasionally, I see him out on the sidewalk, near the big courtyard tree, chalking up the cement with new Crayolas, but I never go out of my way to say hello.

“He’s… fine,” I purse my lips.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” I’ve got to change the subject. “Well, what about you and Sasha, huh?” Connie’s face gets all reddish when I mention Sasha. It’s funny how much he gets so flustered over a girl like that. “You two hang out or something over the weekend?”

My friend’s face becomes a darker shade of red. “Yes, no. I mean, we went to Boudin’s with my mom, but that was it. We didn’t have time to play any games,”

I have to shove down that giggle bubbling up in my throat. “Do you _like_ her, then?”

“Who, what? Sasha?” He acts like it’s nothing. “No, no way, man. We already went over this. She’s a just a friend. And a cool one at that. Unlike you, she doesn’t bully me about topics I don’t wanna talk about.”

I laugh at his last comment. He’s totally not talking about me; he’s talking about himself whether he knows it or not. “Well, what can I say? Anyone can see you’re head over heels for Sasha. You gotta introduce her to me sometime,” Connie shoves me with his elbow, going directly for my stomach. I nearly get the air knocked out of me. “Hey, watch it!” I cry, still kidding around.

“Aw, shut your trap. You’re just jealous because you don’t got a girl of your own to talk to,” Connie sighs.

I smirk, though I kind of do wish I had someone to talk to, regardless of their gender. I want someone to share my common interests, to laugh and cry with me. I want someone I’m able to tell my secrets to, and to know they will keep them safe within their heart. I know no one but Jean who fits the description. My chest twinges with pain, eyes lowering to the floor.

Something dabs my freckled cheeks wet, just when Connie lets out this huge groan, “Nooo, now it’s raining!” He grabs a textbook out of his backpack, holding it above his head to protect himself from the rain.

Blinking away the raindrops catching on my eyelashes, I squint. “Hey,” I say. “Isn’t that your German book? It’s gonna get water-logged,”

Connie looks at me like _I’m_ the crazy one here. “Does it look like I really care right now? Your head’s getting rained on, and you’re not gonna do anything about it?”

“Naw,” I pull my jacket’s hood over my head. “This is the reason why hoodies were invented,”

“Suit yourself,” he says. “Hey, when’s practice again?”

It takes me a minute or two to remember. “In twenty minutes or so. We should head over there right about now,”

My classmate, shakes his head. “I’m hungry though. Let’s get something to eat first. I’m starved.”

“But dude,” I say. “It’s _raining_.”

“And I’m _hungry_ ,” Connie counters.

‘Ughh,’ I want to say, but don’t. Instead, “Do you have money?”

Connie, like he’s been planning this all along, produces a five dollar bill from his pants’ pocket. “Of course. Who doesn’t?”

I don’t. But that’s whatever.

We end up at the convenience store I always go to on my way back home from school. Connie picks out some blue candy that I can only describe as unnatural, then takes a pack of Slim Jims along with him to the counter; he pays for it.

We walk outta there like he didn’t just blow all his money on junk food.

“This is some good stuff,” Connie says. “Here, try some,” He holds out the stick of dehydrated, condensely-packed, salty meat.

I turn him down. “No thanks,”

“Suit yourself. You’re losing out,” He takes a big bite out of it.

Not by much, I want to argue, but I know it’s useless.

We keep walking to practice. Sure, my hair is getting starting to get soaked through the hoodie, rain water dripping from the tip of my nose like runny snot does, but at least none of my schoolwork is wet. On the other hand, Connie’s completely ruined his German textbook. It’s absolutely waterlogged.

The trolley runs past us, but it’s too packed with people going uphill that Connie and I have no space to get on except to hang on the ride and back rails for support. Even then we’re still in the rain, our faces pelted with projectile water due to the wind and speed of the trolley. I can barely keep my eyes open.

Somehow, miraculously, we hop off okay. Next thing I know, we’re in the lobby of the gym; I’m forming a puddle where I stand because I’m so drenched.

Connie and I rush into the locker room, shivering and wet. I peel off my shirt and pants, which both make this gross shucking noise as it unsticks to my skin. Even my underwear is damp. Ugh. Well, I can’t do anything about that because I have no backup pair.

“Freezing cold,” remarks Connie. “Dude, it’s freezing cold.”

“I _know_ ,” I say, slipping on my red leotard on. “Why do you think I’m changing clothes?”

Just then, there’s cheering coming from the big gymnastics hall. Either someone really good is showing off their moves, or our mayor just walked into the building like a movie star.

“What’s going on?” I ask Connie, who’s already changed and is running out to see what all the racket is about.

He gasps, turns to me, and excitedly shouts, “It’s Annie! She’s doin’ her stuff!” Barely after I’ve got my legs and waist into the leotard, Connie takes me by the shoulders and pushes me out to take a look at my tumbling idol, Annie Leonhardt. I’m going to have a fit.

There she is, Annie Leonhardt, flying across the mat, her form completely perfect and graceful. She makes sure everything is distinct; each muscle flexes with ease as she bends back and front like a Gumby doll. Her feet are pointed, her hands straight. Her landing is absolutely beautiful. I watch her in awe, all tantrums toward Connie forgotten.

Everyone watching claps, and I feel my hands following along too. Annie’s face stays completely calm… almost stoic. It’s like she’s completely unfazed by everything. Like she doesn’t care.

And then I feel my friend Connie pushing me towards her as she walks to the girls’ locker rooms.

Oh no nonono. This is _not_ happening today. I’m not prepared to meet my idol, let alone be so near her to feel her chilling, cool aura. I glance nervously at Connie, who then wonkily grins at me, tongue sticking out between his teeth.

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.

He wants me to talk to her.

No way.

“Ah, uh, um,” I stutter pathetically when she’s about to pass by. She does so much as turn her head in my direction. I gulp audibly, which is terribly embarrassing. Now’s my chance to speak. Here goes nothing. “Uh-mm, you were… were r-really cool out there, Annie.”

But instead of a normal response that anyone would give, Annie just looks at me with her cold, sharp eyes and says, “Could’ve been better,”

It takes me a moment to interpret her words, then I blink several times. Was that not a perfect routine? Maybe to her, it wasn’t. Maybe she drives herself with her words towards an even better performance.

“O-okay,” I murmur. “But you were really good--,”

“Hey, kid,” I swear, she glares at me while she snaps, “Learn when to shut it, will you? No one needs your unnecessary commentary. Not me, not anyone, got it? Just put a sock in it. I mean, look at you.” Stupid as can be, I do look at myself, noticing that I’m only half-dressed in front of her. I blush furiously. “What a pathetic mess.”

Before I can even react, Connie’s yelling at Annie for being ‘such a jerk’ to me, and ‘what the hell is wrong’ with her. His hands ball up in fists, his back hunched with shoulders high, and his nostrils flare; he’s angry. He’s angry at my idol.

“Connie,” I say. “Connie, it’s okay.”

“The hell it is!” he grunts.

“Let’s just go.” I declare. “Nice meeting you, Ms. Leonhardt.”

I haul both Connie’s and my ass to the lockers again, my head starting to become clouded and fuzzy with disappoint, anger, hurt, discomfort… self-consciousness.

“Dude, what are you thinking?” I ask Connie. “Don’t go off on someone like that! It’ll get you in trouble!”

His eyebrows skyrocket to the top of his forehead. Then he laughs ruefully, voice full of disdain. “Annie Leonhardt, what a bitch she is,”

I sigh.

“Whatever,” Connie concludes, “She ain’t worth no one’s time, Marco. But you can’t always stand there and take someone’s shit,”

“Then what should I do?” I press my palm to my face. “Get angry and beat up a gym champ who can probably crack my head open with her thighs?”

Connie says, “Something like that,”

“Ugh,”

I can hear Ms. Ral gathering our class together. “Marco! Connie!” she shouts. “You’re going to be late! Get out here!”

We both reply at the same time.

“Yes, Ms. Ral!”

* * *

A glass of water breaks on the floor of the kitchen, shards clinking all over the tile. The shattering noise booms in our tiny apartment, ripping apart the atmosphere of agonizing tension into full _rage_. The water splashes against the tile floor, streaming towards Papa’s feet as he’s cornered into the cupboards. He avoids one of our porcelain plates thrown at his feet just slightly, eyes filled with shock and fear… anger is clearly there, too; I can feel it radiating off of him. His socks are covered in a porcelain dust from the broken plate that lays in a thousand pieces on the floor.

Mama reaches for the next thing closest to her, her eyes muddled in furiousness. A flower vase is being launched from her hands this time; something Papa can’t possibly avoid. But he does this time, dodging to the right and pushing my mama out of the way, no longer choosing to be cornered by his spouse. She screams at him. Profanities so loud that they bounce in my skull. I want to scream as well.

But I can’t. My heart is stuck in my throat, ready to burst at any moment. I don’t want this. I don’t want any of this. This is so wrong; I want to cry and scream and get in the way of Mama and Papa until they stop… _if_ they stop. Who knows; they’re so wrapped up in their fight game that I’m practically invisible to them. I’m an innocent bystander, watching a couple, who married young, fling their possessions at each other, snarling at one another like animals.

The lilies in what was once in the vase are on the ground now, scattered, their pure white petals torn and shredded from all the glass and porcelain and material projected through the air. I almost feel sorry for them; Papa had just bought them the other day to give the flat more of a… homely, put-together feel. Now all of that intention is as obliterated as the glass, plate and vase combined.

Mama lets out a blood-curdling shriek as Papa shoves her away from him, desperately trying to escape from her hysteria. I can tell he doesn’t want to hurt her, but it’s necessary not to take her beatings. He loves her too much to hurt her, yet he won’t allow himself to be beaten either.

Tears are in Papa’s eyes, ready to overflow and run rivers down his cheeks. It’s only when I see Papa tearing up that I realize I’m crying. Not just _crying_ , no. I’m _sobbing_ , hands forming into fists by my sides. This hard, painful clenching is in my chest, right beneath my sternum. It’s unbearable, and one of my fists goes to the area, only to clench onto the fabric of my shirt resting on my skin. My jaw hangs open as I wail, progressively getting louder and louder, but no one seems to hear it.

Just then, Papa races over to me, getting behind me, his arm around my neck. It’s not enough to strangle me, but so much that I can feel his whole being shake.

Mama’s face runs pale then. Her anger subsides, flows away from her face along with her blood as Papa stands defensively behind me. In a sense, I’m like a barrier; the wall between them. Mama’s eyes brim with glassiness… tears. She looks unbelievably sad, something I have never seen before. There’s so much emotion. Too much emotion. I can’t even lift my eyes from her chin to look at her fully.

“I’m leaving,” she announces in a tiny voice. This is so unlike her, I almost don’t believe what I’ve heard. Before I can question her, though, she runs off to the master bedroom and shuts the door, leaving me alone with my papa.

My feet won’t move from my spot, and it takes the help of Papa to sit me down on a chair in the corner of the room. I stare at the floor for a long time, barely registering my papa’s hands soothingly patting me on the back. My whole body is numb. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so hopeless like this before. It’s as if all grounding to keep breathing has been taken away from me. Each puff of air is heavy, difficult and rough on my lungs that were once so used to breathing on a daily basis. Now, I don’t want to do anything anymore.

Mama emerges from the bedroom with a suitcase, _Papa’s_ suitcase, and heads for the door.

“Oh, no!” Papa shouts. His loudness makes my ears ring. “Not my trunk!”

My mama simply shakes her head, turning away from him and sticking her nose up into the air like a child. Papa grits his teeth together so hard I can hear his teeth grinding together. He doesn’t make a move, though. Instead, he warns, “If you leave here, there will be no place to welcome you again when you decide to crawl back to us.” His arm wraps protectively around my shoulders as he glowers at my mother.

Her eyes flick to my face, grief and mourning flowing from them. I bite my lip hard, not sure what to do. I want to run to her, bury my face into her neck and cry. I know that’s what might trigger Papa to be angry with Mama even more than he is now, though. I decide against it, instead letting the tears drip down my chin.

“Marco, _papito_ ,” Mama whispers. “I love you.”

“Mama--,” I hear myself saying.

“Marco.” Papa gruffs, and I stop my mouth from blubbering.

Mama smiles a bit at me. It’s a sad one, I know it is, because the edges of her lips quiver in attempt to hold themselves up in a portrait of happiness. One last look at me, and she pulls up the luggage and hauls it out of the apartment, shutting the door behind her with a loud slam that reverberates throughout the entire complex.

* * *

Even though I play this face of ‘I’m-passive-and-nothing-can-affect-me’, my performance on the beam is terrible. Annie’s crude words bounce off the walls of my skull, echoing louder and louder each minute that passes by. Her sharp eyes wound me; stab me in the pride and confidence. They shoot daggers at my heart, the place that held all respect for her and her massive talent.

I don’t feel whole in my heart, in spirit. It’s like I left some part of me somewhere, forgetting to pick it back up again before I left to chase after Mama. I can’t find it anymore. I can’t _find_ it. It makes me worry, it makes me anxious, it makes me stay up at night with wet streaks down my face until I pass out from sheer exhaustion.

I’m not happy anymore. I’m never happy anymore. I’m constantly irritated at the slightest things that go wrong. My center is starting to become full of resentment and hatred for others, especially Annie Leonhardt. Every time Connie tells me about his dates with Sasha, I itch with annoyance. I yearn for something happy like that. He seems so fucking at peace, content with his life, as if the world is all for him, all the goddamned time. The world isn’t for me; rather against me. It wants to drag me in the dust, kick my gut in until I can’t fight back anymore and leave me there to die. I don’t have the tolerance to listen to so many people getting their way when all I get from life is punishment for my parents’ decisions.

I lose my center of balance during my second round on the beam.

My hands are placed awkwardly as I come down from a handstand. My legs are stiff with fear like two planks of plywood, and I _know_ I’m hesitating.

Everything happens so fast after that. My weight drags me forward, missing the beam completely. And then I’m falling off the edge of the beam, reflexes too slow for my hands to attempt to grip the beam and catch myself.

Blood surges through my ears, my nerves firing off like mad as I panic in midair, searching for something, _anything_ , to grip onto.

This freefall is not one that I fancy; this is a freefall that sends your body to a hell of unsure feelings, the uncertainty of yourself. Your chances of survival, what you’ll be feeling in the next second, if you even felt at all, because sometimes the pain is so quick and sharp that you feel nothing.

I hit the ground ankle-first, hearing it snap as I collapse to the floor. Somehow, I have the strength to turn over, holding my foot. A dizzying rush of searing pain envelopes my entire leg, stemming from my, oh God, the back of my ankle, right in the Achilles’ tendon.

It hurts, it hurts. I grit my teeth hard, eyes squeezed closed in agony. My eyebrows quirk, nose flaring, body shaking with pain. My whole being throbs with pain, the tips of my fingers exploding with pins and needles. And my head...

“Oh, fuck,” Connie groans, immediately at my side.

Ms. Ral doesn’t scold Connie this time. “Are you okay, Marco?” she asks.

I manage to nod.

“Can you talk?”

“Mm,” It hurts. Everything hurts.

“Marco, I need a real answer,” Ms. Ral’s really concerned. “Can you speak, Marco?”

It takes me a while, but, sure enough, I hear a ‘yeah’ croak out from the back of my throat. God, everything hurts so much. Why does it hurt so much? What did I ever do to deserve this pain?

“Stay there,” she says. “Connie, look after him while I get the phone.” Ms. Ral is gone in an instant.

Connie purses his lips together then, looking at my leg, and says, “Hey, you okay?”

I nod slowly. “Y-yep,” No, I’m not okay. I want to cry.

“Shit, dude. I don’t know what to say.” Connie’s pathetic at giving moral support. That’s okay. I never needed it anyway.

The ambulance comes a little later, putting me onto a ridiculous stretcher, and carrying me into the truck. I cast my eyes downward, too ashamed to look at anyone in the face. I can just _feel_ Annie’s ice-blue eyes boring holes into me. I close my eyes shut, closing myself off from the things happening around me.

I wonder what Papa is going to do now. We don’t have enough to pay for the hospital bill; even the ER is something I fear might put us into more debt than what we already owe to the bank. How the hell will we afford a cast, if something is broken? A splint? Crutches? We’re in to be screwed over, maybe. We’re going to be paying off my injury for years, maybe even up until I’m ready to work, which is still a ways’ off from reality. Nevertheless, I’m scared.

Anxious.

Nervous.

Fearful of the future. I don’t want to go through this anymore.

The nurses look at me with sympathy as I writhe in the hospital bed when the doctor comes in to inspect my foot. I need an x-ray, but I won’t stop _moving_ , making it worse than it really is. They have to restrain me until I calm down. It takes a while, but as soon as Papa steps into the scene, I obey the doctor’s orders immediately.

It turns out that I’ve, by un-luck, torn my Achilles tendon after all. Papa purses his lips together into a tight line that’s nearly obscured by his dark moustache that lives under his nose, groomed nicely as always. He rubs a finger over it, scratching at his nose. When he asks to talk with the doctor privately, I know he’s about to try and negotiate a price for my injury.

I chew on the inside of my cheek in boredom, the pain in my foot slowly subsiding into a dull throb. The nurses have bandaged it well, cushioning it. I have it propped up so I can’t tangle my legs in the blankets and hurt myself even more. My hands fold over my belly as I wait for something, anything to happen next. But it doesn’t. It’s all quiet now, leaving me to expect sleep to overtake my consciousness. Everything around me becomes so slow that I barely manage to stifle a yawn. Before I know it, however, I drift off into a tormenting sleep filled with ridicule and agony.

 

Connie comes to visit me so often, loaded with more stories about school and Berthold and Reiner. He kind of skips over Sasha for some reason. I have no idea why, but from the way a blush creeps onto his face, I can tell he must really like her. I’ve come to the point where I’m not so annoyed with him as I once was. He’s trying to be a good, caring friend and I really, really appreciate it. However, I wish Jean would come see me.

I don’t know where he is or how he’s doing, for that matter. Sure, it was me who shunned him, but as much as that’s true, I don’t want to end our friendship. No. I just want…

I don’t know what I want anymore.

It’s all so confusing. It makes no sense to others. It doesn’t even make sense to _me_. Jean is my friend, and I’ve showed him that I hate him… yet I expect him to visit me? I let out a laugh full of scorn. I hate myself. Why did I push him away when all I want is us to draw closer?

This question sticks with me even when I’m released from the hospital, crutches helping me to ‘walk’.

 

Eighth grade is almost over, and I’ll be a freshman in high school come August. Our graduation is coming up soon, and I’ll be walking on that auditorium stage to receive my certificate like everyone else in my class. I’m excited, to be completely honest. I’ll be getting away from these three years of hardship, off to a new life in high school. Or so, that’s how I see it. Usually, a place holds memories; getting away from middle school will surely relieve me of some haunting flashbacks.

Papa works night and day to pay off our debt, deepened by the hospitalization bills. But, funny thing is, he never once talks about it. He takes it, coming home about to pass out. I do what I can, helping him into bed before I experiment with what we’ve got in the kitchen.

Usually, I’m able to make simple things like toast and eggs but I know my expertise needs to be more than breakfast food, so I end up breaking out the old cookbook collecting dust in the corner of the kitchen counter and following the instructions. I’ve successfully learned how to make soups, spaghetti; whatever’s available in the cabinets and fridge. I spend the small portion of money lying on the kitchen table that Papa sets out every week for me on groceries. I don’t mind; it’s a holds a lot more benefits than anyone could have expected.

The grocers know me by now, praising me for being such a good kid. ‘We don’t see many kids help out their family with chores these days’ is what I hear most often. Most times, the grocers will let me throw in a free pack of gum or chewy-something from the snacks rack next to their register. I save my sweets, stashing them in a bag like I’m collecting Halloween candy, just throughout the year and not all in one day. Maybe I’ll eat it when I feel like it but, lately, my tongue doesn’t crave for sugar.

I get to attend my eighth grade ceremony with my classmates on the fourth of June, holding Connie and Reiner’s hands when the whole class to take a final bow; our parents clap for us. Well, everyone’s parents except for mine. Papa couldn’t make it because he’s got to work at this hour. And even if he had today off, he’d be so tired that I’m pretty sure he would be falling asleep in his chair. I try not to let it bother me so much.

“Congratulations, you guys!” exclaims Mrs. Springer, Connie’s mom. She hugs her son, which makes him blush in return.

“Mooom,” he whines, but I can tell he secretly appreciates his mother’s affection. I can’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy in my heart.

“Where’s your dad, Marco?” Mrs. Springer asks. I guess Connie’s spilled a lot of info about me to her to the point she knows my name.

“Oh, um,” I force a smile. “He’s working. Really busy, you know?”

She smiles back, although gently. “Aw, honey, that’s too bad.” She says, “Would you like to go out with us for dinner tonight? You and your dad, of course.” My eyebrows raise immediately.

“Oh. Oh, no no, it’s okay. I don’t wanna impose on you--,” I start, shifting on my crutches.

“She waves my decline off, laughing heartily. “Don’t worry, honey. I’m sure Connie and you wanna hang out some more.”

I nod. “...Are you sure, Mrs. Springer? I mean…”

“Positive.” She gleams at me.

So, after calling Papa at work (which turned out pretty horribly despite the fact that his boss seemed nice on the phone), I get into the car with Connie and his mom and travel to their house. Papa said he would be there after work, which means he’ll be arriving around six by trolley. When I tell Mrs. Springer this, she sounds absolutely delighted.

The Springers’ are more than welcoming when I’m invited into their house, which is right above the arcade they own. It makes me a little nervous, but I think it’s mainly the fact that _all of his relatives_ are here. Packed jammed into the living room. It’s so loud; adults talking over the screaming babies that I presume to be Connie’s little cousins. My ears are beginning to ring, but I keep quiet. Thankfully, Connie is nice enough to get us to his bedroom after greeting everyone.

We play a little something on his Atari before we get bored again, and head out to join Connie’s crazy relatives. Cake is served, a toast is made (adults with wine and beer, the kids with punch), and Connie’s called to the kitchen to help his mama out with dinner.

As I sit on the couch, nerves a bit frazzled from the chaos around me, one of Connie’s baby girl cousins decides to latch onto my shirt and stay there in my lap. My breathing quickens. I don’t know what to do, really. I’ve never been able to handle little kids, let alone hold them. I’m afraid to pick her up; I might lose my grip and drop her. But, before I can move, Connie’s aunt plucks the baby from me and smiles. I let out a quiet sigh of relief.

“Yo, Marco!” Connie yells from the kitchen. “Wanna help?”

I sit up as quickly as I can. “Yeah, sure.” Carefully avoiding the children crawling on the floor, I make my way to the kitchen, where Connie’s stirring this big pot that seems to be filled with some type of… “Is that spaghetti?” I ask.

“Angel hair, but yeah,” he replies. “Can you find a colander somewhere?”

“A what?” I say.

“A colander… strainer thing,” He rolls his eyes at me when I finally get it, lighting up like a lightbulb.

Banging through nearly all of the cabinets in the kitchen, I locate the strainer (colander?) on a conveniently leveled shelf for me to reach as I lean on one crutch for support, placing it in the sink so he can dump the pasta in. The spaghetti really is fine, because some of the strands manage to fall out from the little holes made in the colander.

I would help more, but the doorbell rings and Mrs. Springer says it’s probably my papa and that I should go open it for him. I stop playing the role as sue chef to let Papa in, but one of Connie’s aunts gets the door before me, reasoning that someone on crutches shouldn’t be running around as much as I’m doing right now. Papa ruffles my hair, smiling and giving Connie’s mom a big hug as she returns it. Connie and I just look at each other with confused expressions on our faces. ‘Whatever’ is what I get from his silent message.

Yeah, whatever. I shake my head, hobbling to the dining room, Connie trailing behind me with some fish thing in his arms.

As soon as he sets the food down, he says, “You hungry?”

“Yeah, starving.”

Connie smiles, bellowing, “Yo, food’s served!”

* * *

I nearly drop off my crutches and fall to the ground when I see Mr. Kirstein carrying out big cardboard boxes to a moving truck, Jean trailing behind with his suitcase that seems as if it’s about to burst from the amount of stuff jammed in it. His honey eyes stare straight at mine, shining in the little moonlight there is. My mouth hangs open when I see him clutch Marci the Seahorse in his arms a little tighter.

“No,” I whisper. Then louder, “No. No, no, you can’t.”

Papa’s hand rests on my shoulder. I have to hold my cool. “Moving already, Hans?” he says, voice steady, though inside we both feel tension in our hearts. Our good neighbors are moving away.

Mr. Kirstein sighs. “…Wiebke misses Jean. It’s about time to go back. You can find work anywhere, right?”

Papa nods solemnly. My eyes begin to swim with tears. “Have a good trip back. It was nice to know you,”

“Likewise,” Mr. Kirstein sounds genuine.

“Jean,” I hear myself calling out to my best friend. The friend that I’ve been avoiding for so long.

“…” Of course, he won’t talk back. Just looks at me like he always does and keeps his mouth closed tight. But I can’t get my voice to work right anymore. I’m stuck watching him leave, abandon me, just like Mama did. Why is everyone I love leaving me? Why can’t he stay? What did I do to deserve this? My eyes flutter in order to keep the tears from spilling. The atmosphere becomes sparkly from the tears reservoiring in my eyes.

“We should get going now.” Mr. Kirstein announces. “Goodbye, Ferdinand, Marco,”

Papa waves at him and Jean. “Goodbye,” Jean’s still looking at me; he’s unresponsive to my father.

I gulp. This is crazy, I think. “Bye,” I say, and we part ways.

Jean mumbles before he slams the passenger’s door shut when he’s climbed into the moving truck safely. I barely hear it, but I’m sure of what he said: “Crazy,”


	5. Jaegermeister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think I've just screwed myself over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a trigger warning here: **This chapter contains talk about religion and sexual discrimination. Please know that this is not my personal opinion, but it is a necessary topic in TotS. Thank you for understanding.**
> 
> Hey y'all!  
> I'm late on this chapter... again. XD Sorry; things just seem to be going by so quick and I feel as though there aren't enough hours in the day to complete a task. This summer has been crazy: new relationship, new home, new college, new. job (hopefully)... Everything new! So, I'm still trying to adjust to it while writing, which makes it even more difficult. But I'm not complaining. Thank you all who have stuck with me and this fic, TotS! I promise to finish this (someday), just as I have started it.  
> Also, this chapter has made the rating go from Mature to Explicit! So yes, there's some spanky-wanky in here for your... enjoyment? I think. Maybe. It's a little shorter than the other chapters... Plus, a little EreMarco as pre-warning. Hope y'all will understand that. ouo;;;   
> So enough with me talking nonsense. Enjoy!

Usually, children are brought up with this presumption given from their parents that boys love girls and girls like boys. That’s just how it goes, as they would say. It’s natural, and it’s justifiable. We’re human beings, the higher-ups; the intelligible compared to all other animals. If a couple consists of one male and one female, it should be the only right way, is that not correct? Or so says society.

Ha. I don’t feel this way at all.

Not at all. My chest has become so filled with this... this _fluid_ , it seems, that makes me feel as though I’m drowning, slowly sinking and, in turn, swallowing the liquid until it tops off my lungs and stops my heart.

I’m not in love with any girl. I’m in high school, a senior to be exact, and I have not once found a girl attractive to me. ‘It’s a problem’ is what Connie would say for sure; he’s dating Sasha now, who I knew all along he would date. I mean, why not? They’ve been friends for positively forever now. They seem very happy together. But not me. Not me, because I don’t like girls.

I like boys. Or at least I think I do. I feel like I’ve _sinned_.

I mean, if the Bible says it, then I must be wrong about my feelings, right? Dad preaches to me about it constantly; makes me feel like I’m going straight to Hell for just thinking about a boy.

For the umpteenth time, I roll to my side, sighing through my nose. I can’t sleep; my mind is running like one of those racehorses people bid upon. _Seabiscuit_ or whatever.

It’s funny to think about it this way: Jean Kirstein, the boy who was my best friend, has been gone from my life for four years now, and yet I’m still in touch with his arch nemesis, Eren Jaeger. Eren was the boy that was having a pummeling session with Jean years ago, I remember. He had hinted that there was something off with Jean, that he wasn’t _normal_ , but I saw no difference. I still can’t put a finger on it today. But it’s not like Eren is normal, either. He’s not.

Eren Jaeger is part of this program called Survey Plus; SP as we say on campus. Why it’s called that, I have no clue, but that’s not the point I’m making here. I’m trying to say that he’s in a Special Ed course.

He’s proud of it apparently, too, because he always uses his so-called disability as a trump card. Whenever there’s something that he finds requiring a little more than some easy-instinct brain power, he says he’s got dyslexia and won’t do his work. I’ve seen him do it, too. One time, when we were out on the field doing some soccer exercise the PE coach thought was beneficial, Eren complained that he always got his left and right mixed up, therefore he couldn’t do the exercise like everyone else. I don’t know if he was lying or not, but he opted out on the whole soccer curriculum.

But Eren... he’s something much more than just ‘special ed’. For one thing, yes, he’s a stuck-up little snob that only trusts Mikasa, his adopted sister, but he can open up when he wants to. As I spent more time with him after Jean left me, Eren proved to be a good sport with a good heart. Really, truly.

He comes over to Connie’s arcade sometimes where, on most days after school, I’m chilling out with the gang (Connie himself, Sasha, Reiner and Berthold). He’ll come over with or without his sister, bringing a sack of goodies. And goodies, boy, are they _good_.

I’ve already given up my hoard of candies from 8th and 9th grade to my pack; we gobbled all the over-sugary chews in less than a day. However, Eren’s always bringing stuff like pretzels and sodas and, for the love of God, these glorious pizza chips that I can’t find _anywhere_ in San Francisco. I scarf them down the moment he rips open the package, not letting him pour it into a bowl for us to share first.

And, for some reason or another, he and I are the only ones who really love those pizza chips. Everybody else kind of opts out, instead reaching for the Coca-Cola and Lay's potato chips. So he and I lounge at one of the booths in the back, sitting next to each other, grabbing at the chips while we watch, talk and laugh at all of our friends.

I groan, throwing the blanket over my head as the feelings wash over me. I don’t wanna face this. Ugh.

Eren is something. He’s someone I like to be around. Not only that, but he and I just... click. We can talk for hours about anything. His humor is something I can really appreciate. His bro-hugs are what I’ve loved from the first time he pulled me into one. Something tugs me in the gut, leaving me breathless when I watch him lick the flavoring powder that came from the chips off of his slim, nicely shaped fingers. It starts from there, and only goes further, because I find myself wanting to see that same sight of him licking something off his fingers _between my legs_.

Oh dear Lord. I thrash in my bed a little more before settling down, knowing I must be making a racket now since we’ve moved into a smaller apartment. Besides, my dad is on the other side of the room, trying to get some shut-eye before he has to go back to work. I’d rather not disturb him. But the growing ache in my groin is beginning to bother me, and there’s no way I can back down and calm myself after this. If I do, it’s just as good as jerking off in the bed; I’ll get struck with a series of wet dreams for a week.

Slowly, I sneak to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I pucker my lips, clapping the toilet seat cover down so I can sit on it. Undoing the drawstrings from my pajama pants, I pull the waistband down. I hiss when my cock hits the cool air, half-chub rubbing over my hand.

Eren’s lips, I imagine, are so soft; a pretty, bitten red towards the center. I gulp as my hand begins to stroke my hardening length. If only Eren would wrap those lips around me, suck me gently and lave his tongue around my slit like they do in the videos... oh, that would be exquisite.

 

I wonder how it would feel. He would probably be scorching hot, his pants of breath over my cock both pleasuring and torturing me. He would go down on me again, tongue swirling almost inhumanly, wringing out the lewdest of noises from the core of my very being. and then he’d play with my balls, massaging them in their sac, teasing me. It’d be so good that I’d wrench his head back and watch as my come splashes over his face, covering him in strings of pearlescent ecstasy.

Oh fuck, I’m coming. My breath catches, sputtering instead out of both my nostrils and mouth. My hand grips me firmly, pulling upward like I’m trying to milk myself... definitely something I would love to see Eren do to me. Colored sparks burst behind my closed eyes, the pleasure of releasing rushing through my body.

By the time I come down from my high, I grimace at the huge mess I’ve made over the floor and my fingers. Wiping up the mess up with a little more toilet paper than I really should’ve used, I flush it down the toilet and wash my hands quickly.

Finally, with my body feeling a little better and mind tired from creating such a vivid image of... him, I climb back into my bed and conk out before my head hits the pillow.

* * *

I hate doing work, but I have to. At least I’m lucky enough to find any; I help out around Connie’s arcade, standing at the prize counter to redeem kids’ tickets and exchange them for teddy bears and candy. Sometimes, they’ll ask for tokens, but most of them have already saved up tokens from their previous visit here. I have a boring job, but at least it’s something.

Dad doesn’t seem to be doing so well; he’s been coughing lately, but that’s probably because of all the dust and smoke from the construction sites he’s been working on. I want to tell him to take a break, but I know it won’t do us any justice; we’re so in debt that there’s no time for vacations.

Tonight, though, I need some time to unwind from all that’s going on. I’m almost out of high school, almost out of here, and yet everything is so far away in the future. Dad doesn’t know about this party going on or he’d never let me go; after all, it’s at a place he thinks is too rich for his taste. You know, one of those by-the-bay houses with the wide windows that show all the owner’s possessions to the street. It would be so easy to break in and steal everything. I’m surprised no one has done it yet. Oh well, that’s beside the point.

As soon as Dad comes home, I tell him I’m gonna have a study session with Connie and Bertl; we’re gonna crash at Bert’s house. He doesn’t look all that convinced.

“Really, Dad,” I say. “Finals are coming up.” Just to prove it to him, I hold up my notes from class. All of them have hastily-scribbled notes on them that looks pretty much ineligible, but it gets the meaning across.

He sighs, carding through his hair with a look on his face he always pulls when he’s conflicted or when he talked to Mama before she left us. “What about homework?” he asks.

“I’ll do it tomorrow.” I say. “Oh, come on, _Dad_. It’s only one night. You used to go to parties too when you were my age.”

Dad squints as me. “This isn’t about me,” he counters. “This is about you, and you need to work hard in school.”

“But,” I start, but he’s already cocked and ready to pound his fist on the table, a thing of his he’s taken up as a pastime when I talk to him lately.

“Not ‘but’! You’re not going, Marco.” His tone is on edge. I should drop it.

I sag my shoulders. I guess I have to go with plan B now that A is burned down to the ground. “Fine.”

Dad leaves for graveyard shift around the time the party starts up. They need that freeway built whether it’s night or day. Good. Now’s my chance to sneak out. And I do, taking the spare key with me.

 

“Hey, pass me that booze.” Reiner says, hand open and waiting for me to give him the rest of my vodka. I put it into his palm, and he grunts a thanks in return before swigging a huge portion of it.

We’re hanging out at Berthold’s place, where his parents are out of town for the entire month; traveling or doing some shit in China. His parents are missionaries, his father a pastor, but it’s not like any of that matters. We raid the wine cellar they’ve got, which is overstocked and filled with much more than just fermented grape juice for communion. A few bottles of vodka, cinnamon whiskey and oh, my favorite, tequila wouldn’t be missed.

I sip away at my throat-burning drink in the corner of the living room, watching Sasha and a few other girls from our school dance to some funky trance music from back in the 70’s or whatever. I don’t really care; I’m not interested in them. Instead, my attention is mainly on Eren, who dances among those girls, grinning like he’s having one helluva time. A spike of envy runs through me, but I press it down. There’s no sense in getting jealous over a bunch of junior girls grinding against Eren.. even though I would like to be the one grinding against him.

I turn my head away and focus on something else. Berthold is hosting and entertaining the others at this party, Reiner is leaning against the wall like I am, and Connie’s getting high off his ass in the kitchen. I can’t find Mikasa anywhere, but I figure she’s hiding for a reason. Smart move, I reckon, because the cops could bust into here at any moment and arrest everyone in this house.

But they don’t, because the cops don’t really care. As long as no one goes out into the streets and starts streaking, we’re considered angels; I don’t think Berthold would even allow anyone out of the house anyway, because he already knows what drugs do to people sometimes. I stay away from it; I like to be buzzed instead.

I take my tequila and, as gross as it is, swish some between my teeth before swallowing. It leaves my gums numb, tingling with that unique sensation only tequila really gives. And here he comes; Jean starts creeping into my mind as I float on the effect of the alcohol.

Jean is no longer a child, more a sophomore in high school now... Same as Eren and yet I can only imagine him as the tiny, quirky sixth grader he was before he left. If I ever met him again, I wonder if he’d stare at me with the same expression he had ever since I first met him. I wonder if his hair is better cut, and if it’s still blond on the top, whilst the undercut is still a darker shade. I wonder if he would repeat the same word to me that I’ve come to hate; if he’ll say I’m crazy again.

I wonder if he’ll spite me for being gay... A definition that has a negative ring to it. Maybe he’ll tell my dad. Maybe he’ll disassociate himself from me. Or maybe he’d.. no, I don’t think he would ever come to love me. I don’t even know if _I myself_ could love him the way I feel for Eren. And then Papa, er, Dad would disown me, send me away to the Castro district because that’s where ‘people like me’ belong. Ouch, that really hurts.

My head is beginning to spin, and, suddenly, my entire being feels woozy. Maybe I should stop the drinking tonight, but another part of me doesn’t want that. The other side of me wants to keep on going; party until I find myself in the bathtub with four other people or something. But before I can decide whether or not to get shit-faced, my friend, no, my _crush_ is coming towards me, finally escaped from the writhing mass of girls dancing in the middle of the room.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hey,” He greets me. “You got any left in that bottle?” Eren gestures at the tequila I’m holding in my hand.

I nod. “Wan’ a swig?”

“More like two,” he laughs. He and I share a the tequila until it’s gone, the silence between us not as uncomfortable as I thought. Then, he speaks up, “Let’s go upstairs. It’s too loud here to talk,”

“Sure,” I say. I guess he wants to chat it up into the night with me, which is an offer I would gladly accept.

We give Berthold a little heads-up that we’re heading to one of the bedrooms; he just smiles and winks at us. My face goes a little red, but Eren doesn’t seem to notice. That’s a good thing. So we close the door behind us, occupying one of the many guest rooms in Berthold’s house. We’re so tired from the party already that Eren and I flop onto the bed, lying right next to each other.

My heart is pounding right out of my chest. I’m so close to him, so close that I could reach out and kiss him, but I keep my fantasies to myself and study the ceiling instead. Only when Eren rouses from his paralyzed state on the bed do I face him.

“Mm, wha’ time ‘s it?” he asks, rubbing at his green eyes.

I shake my head. “No clue. Last time I checked, it was about twelve.”

“Only twelve?” he lets out a long groan. I shut my eyes in vain to control myself. Even his groans are starting to affect me, nodding at his question. “Damn, we’re lightweights.”

“Pff, who cares?” I counter. “No one is missing us down there anyway.”

He shuffles to his side, looking me straight in the face. “Touche.” he says. “But I thought I was going to last a little longer than I usually do. Turns out I never met that goal,”

“Always happens,” I sigh. “I stopped trying.” He rolls over onto his stomach, face hovering over mine. Oh shit.

“It’s not always good to give up, ya know?” he says in a low voice. I swear, a shiver runs down my spine. I’m so close to him... so fucking close.. “If you give up early, you’ll never get to know the outcome.”

His eyes are so beautiful; a pale blue-green that are just as amazing as crystals. They’re not sharp like Jean’s, but the color is something different. It’s muddled and muted, but they shine bright with curiosity and, oh God, I think I know that look, lust.

“Eren...” I whisper, not daring to ruin what’s going on here, if there’s anything at all. “What...”

He licks his pretty lips. “I know you want me, Marco.”

What? I try to steady my breath. “I... don’t,” I lie.

He chuckles, tan fingers stroking my cheek lightly. I like that. I like that a lot. “You’ve been staring at me a lot,”

“I always do,” I confess, but it ends up sounding like an excuse.

“Right?” he says, smiling at me. I nod. “Do you like me, Marco?”

I bite my lip. Shit. I’m so easy to read, even Eren, who isn’t usually the first one to be mega observant, can translate my movements and expressions. I... nod slowly, teeth releasing my lower lip. God, I want him so much. I do, I do, and I want his body on mine. And then his lips are on mine, and everything almost _explodes_.

It’s a positively extraordinary experience to be kissed. His lips are so forceful, colliding and coercing mine to move against his. It’s like some type of odd little dance we do, melding our mouths together like we don’t need to come up for breath anytime... if ever. Eren’s tongue darts out to meet mine, in which I shyly greet him with my own while he doesn’t bother introducing himself; he’s too busy shoving his tongue down my throat.

I hold back a choke, unfamiliar with the feel of something sliding and slithering in my mouth other than my own tongue. Maybe Eren’s just excited; shit, I am too. Maybe this is the way experienced people do it. This is how people who’ve kissed before make out. Closing my eyes, I attempt to breathe through my nose and follow Eren’s lead.

His hands begin to travel down my sides, his weight shifting so he’s atop of me. It feels comforting to have someone on me, knowing what to do. I suck at his lower lip as he pulls back until it snaps back from my suction.

Eren grins brilliantly at me then, and all I can do is believe that he’ll take care of me; guide me and do what will please us both. He drags his palms to the waistband of my pants, plucking at it like he’s asking me for permission. Nodding, I take my hands to the area as well, undoing the button of my pants and pulling down the zipper. But before I can get any further than that, he stops me, still giving me this beautiful smile. I back off slowly, letting him take over for me.

He dips down, peeling my pants and undergarments from my legs, hiking up my legs when he directs me this way and that. Throughout the night, we love each other, Eren adjusting me to his desires. My first time, now gone and given to him. My heart swells with overwhelming feeling. I constantly want to kiss him, but he only lets me toward the end when his hips slap against mine, the heat and passion between us almost unbearable. My hands can’t stop roaming his body, worshiping it like he’s some type of god who’s descended down to earth for the purpose of laying next to me. He squeezes me, and oh God, fuck, my whole vision goes white for a second. Eren’s so good. I love him. I don’t even mind when he pins my arms above my head; he kisses me with so much force that my lips hurt.

Eren’s breathing finally slows, but his attention on me doesn’t wane. His warm hand wraps around me, bringing me to ultimate release. I swear, I forget how to breathe for a minute because, by the time, I come back down, the first breath is gut-wrenchingly difficult for me.

Eren caresses my sides, tells me I’m pretty when I come; kisses me deeply. We lay there for a while, listening to each other’s heartbeats.

“I love you,” The words slip out of my mouth. Oh God.

But Eren doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he doesn’t say anything at all. He just smiles. “Wanna do it again?” he asks after a while, a chuckle bubbling from his mouth.

I blush, gulping.

“Yeah. Sure,”

 

Mornings after are always awkward. No matter how you put it, you’ll always wake up to find the person you slept with (probably) right next to you or, in this case, atop of you. Eren’s in spread-eagle mode, sprawled over me, using my stomach as a pillow. there’s drool where my navel is, but I don’t mind. Eren being there makes this part of me feel comforted. The other side is saying, “Holy shit. I just slept with my friend Eren Jaeger.”

Speak of the devil. Eren stirs from his sleep, most likely noticing how my breathing pattern has changed; my stomach is no longer a inflating and deflating cushion for him to lay his head upon. His light eyes flutter open, his mouth widening in a big, gross yawn that’s so loud I almost blush. What if someone outside the room heard it? But, then again, everyone would suspect something anyway. Eren and I disappeared from the dancing scene together...

“Good mornin’,” he grumbles, cricking his neck on both sides. I try to do the same, but I’m far too tense to get any relief from the action.

“Hi,” I squeak when he crawls up to me, face-to-face. I can see his eyes tracing my lips. He moves away, though, much to my disappointment. “What time is it?”

“Fuck if I know.” He gets up, stretching his arms and back, and I can’t help but watch how nicely his lean muscles flex under his tan skin. He checks the clock on the wall. “It’s six-thirty, crazy, right?” Unbelievable. We’ve only slept a few hours. “You want some breakfast?” he asks me. “Think Berthold’s got any good stuff in his cabinets?”

I shrug. Honestly, I don’t know. Besides, Eren’s acting like nothing even happened yesterday; like all that passion we experienced with each other never existed. At all. A sinking feeling in my heart really ruins my mood. I didn’t want this to happen. I thought there was going to be, maybe, a little more than this. Like I wasn’t going to be treated like some... fling. Some one-night-stand or something. Like I was just giving myself over to him so he could get some enjoyment out of me for a while. But Eren isn’t one to do that... 

“Hey, you coming or not?” Eren says, holding the door open for me. I’m still jumping into my pants. My back hurts, and him waiting on me makes me feel guilty for something I haven’t even done.

I nod. “Yeah, comin’,”

The whole breakfast shazam pretty much consists of some really high fiber cereal drenched in sweet milk out of a fucking _cup_ , because Eren wasn’t able to find any bowls. It’s disgusting, and I have a difficult time swallowing it down, but it’s not like I feel hungry, anyway. In fact, I don’t. I don’t feel like eating.

There’s this hollowness inside of me, and something irks me saying that Eren should’ve been the one to fill it. He’s just _there_ , right by my side like a stranger I’ve never met before. Sure, his touch still burns upon my skin, but to feel complete? No, I don’t feel any of that. Eren is a friend, but the pleasure he’s given me last night is nothing but temporary.

“Hey, Eren…” I hear myself saying through a mouthful of bran.

He looks up at me with very tired green eyes. “Hn?”

What the fuck am I trying to say? “Uh.. nothin’. It’s nothing.” I look away, cursing myself internally.

Why can’t I just say it to him; that I like him and I want to know if he likes me, too? Oh, I know. Because it’s stupid. And I’m too insecure to say it in front of him. Shit.

Berthold is somehow still living enough to drive me, Eren and Mikasa back to our houses before we get caught. It’s a miracle how I have enough time before Dad gets back from work.

“Thanks, Bertl,” I give him my best smile before waving at Mikasa and Eren.

“See ya,” Eren says, and I try to avoid too much eye contact with him.

“Yeah, see you.” I reply before bounding up the stairs.

That could’ve gone a lot better if I hadn’t freaked out trying to avoid Eren. I want to slam my head against the door as I unlock it with shaky hands if not for the time crunch I’ve got going on for me; Pap-uh, Dad will be coming home soon enough. I can’t be caught coming back smelling like booze and sweat from last night.

I lock the door behind me, hanging the key back on its rack before rousing up my bedsheets to make it look convincing I slept here. My clothes go into the hamper next, bunching them as well to keep my father from even thinking I went to a party. I’m on high alert, moving as quickly as I can. I need to stage everything perfectly, or I’ll be in trouble.

Finally, I race my way naked into the shower, turning it on hot. As I jump in, they spray hits my back, knocking the wind out of me. Damn, it’s cold. My balls are going to turn blue if the heat doesn’t turn on soon; it’s that cold.

To my luck, the water eventually goes from antarctic cold to lukewarm, which is ultimately better than nothing. I miss our old apartment, as dinky as it was. This new ‘condo’ is beat up, the utilities barely working properly. Our toilet is the worst, constantly overflowing or under-filling, leaving us dry. It sucks, and I wish I could get out of here for a better house. Our old apartment was so much better, with colorful walls and a room for myself. Our kitchen was nicer, and the living room was big enough to hold at least a small party, which we did do quite often back then.

But things have changed, and we no longer live there. I no longer have a tree in the middle of the courtyard, and I no longer have my mother with me. I no longer have Jean as my neighbor.

There’s some banging going on in the bedroom, signalling that Dad is back from work. He always shoves his things in the corner of the room, making a big cacophony in the process. It’s early, but it’s not out of the norm for me to be taking a shower. I could possibly come up with the ‘I couldn’t sleep’ excuse and make us breakfast or something before he goes to bed for a few hours.

Scrubbing myself the best that I can, I rinse real quick and turn off the tap. It’s a little foggy in the bathroom from my shower; I can barely see my reflection in the tiny mirror hanging above the sink.

“Marco?” I hear my dad call from outside.

“Yeah, just a minute.” I say, drying off haphazardly. I don’t know why I’m rushing; I can’t have him catch on to my panic, so I slow down, taking my time wrapping my towel around my waist before opening up the bathroom door. “You’re back late.”

“Long night,” he sighs, wiping at his grimy forehead. He needs a shower more than I do. “Why are you up so early?”

“It’s sevenish.” I reply, hoping he’ll believe me. “I couldn’t sleep in,”

He looks me in the eye. “Really..?”

Steel yourself, Marco. “Yeah, really.” I’m so relieved that my voice hardly wavers. My eyes, on the other hand, are directly fixed with his. My neck is tense, but I keep focused, not wanting to blow my cover.

Dad looks away, exhaling loudly from his nose. “Go get something to eat. I’m going to clean up.”

Thank God. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll make you something, too.”

Dad shakes his head tiredly. “I had my lunch break. Gonna sleep after my shower.”

“... Alright.” I murmur after a while.

Breakfast consists of some slices of fried Spam with an egg and toast. After all that partying and, um, physical activity (so to speak) with Eren, I’m absolutely famished. Sure, I had some cereal, but that stuff is way too healthy and unsatisfactory for me. Meat, eggs and carbs are more my style for breakfast anyhow.

But I can’t make myself eat, really. I poke and prod at my egg, tearing the bread into a thousand tiny pieces on my plate. Even the Spam is wasted, being stabbed by my fork over and over again. The sight of those holes in the pinkish meat make me gag; I chuck it in the trashcan before panic begins to overcome me. Then, once the offending Spam slices are gone, my mind wanders elsewhere. I know exactly where it’s at, too.

It’s fixed on Eren. Fixed on the way he loved me last night, er, this morning. His hands on me were so rough, but they knew how to meld me into a mess, wanting more of his touch.

And then there’s fear that creeps into my skull… though, it’s undeniable, of course.

There’s that question: does Eren really love me back? One part of me says, hell yes! Of course he would love me. He doesn’t seem the type to use people, especially not me… I’ve known him since middle school. Sure, he and Jean didn’t ever get along, but Eren seemed to like me just fine. Surely, he wouldn’t use me for his own pleasure.

That’s when everything goes to shit in my head. What if Eren really was just as cruel as the bad side of my mind makes him? What if he really is a douchebag deep down inside? What if all of my fantasies that I’ve had about him are all worth nothing, nada?

But, boy, I am too tired for any of this negativeness. I need to sleep. The food goes into the fridge; maybe my dad can eat it later, despite all the holes I’ve poked into the Spam. When my head hits the thin pillow on my bed, exhaustion follows soon after. I can’t think of anything else but sleeping.

And sleep I do, only to have dreams that worry me when I wake again.

* * *

“Yo, Marco!” Connie brings me back out of my thoughts when we’re picking at some soggy fries in the high school cafeteria. Honestly, all I want right now is to be home, or at the arcade, or somewhere where I’m _not_ sitting next to Eren Jaeger.

I never could forget that night when we slept together. Flashbacks of it still recur when I twist and turn in my sheets. When I try to get off, too, the memories come in like a flood and I end up frustrated and scared that Eren really just likes my body, not me myself. It haunts me; _he_ haunts me. And yet, I see him every single day, acting like we’re still good buddies and nothing more.

Urgh… Eren’s trying to talk to me. My gut sinks, but I hold my ground. “Oh, I dunno,” I reply to his offer to go for some ice cream after school today. “I think I have practice today.”

“You’re _still_ tumbling?” Reiner bellows, clearly surprised that I’ve kept up the sport.

I shrug. “Uh, yeah. Why? I’ve always done it. You know me, The Human Pretzel.” I give him a big smile.

Eren smirks. “I know that for a fact,”

“W-what?” I stutter. Is he referring to that one night that I just can’t stop thinking about..? “I went to a lot of your competitions with Mikasa after Jean left, thank God. You’re definitely a human pretzel, ‘specially on those uneven bars.”

Oh. Ohhh. Okay, so he wasn’t referring to that one time. It takes a while for my mind to register everything he’s just said but, when everything clicks, I grin in an awkward way that makes my cheeks feel like they’re being numbed.

“Is it hard to tumble after that one accident?” Connie asks. He doesn’t tumble anymore. He’s too busy macking on his girlfriend Sasha than to do a sport. “Man, I still remember that like it was yesterday… I was about to have a heart attack.”

“You and me both,” I say in complete honesty. “Didn’t think I was gonna make it…” Now, that part is a lie. I _did_ know I was going to make it, and I did know that I _didn’t_ want to make it right then and there.

“We’re glad to have you here then,” Berthold says with a bit of humor in his tone.

“Yeah, Marco,” Reiner says, “I can’t imagine a life without ya,”

I shake my head. We shouldn’t go into that topic. “Whatever, you guys. I’m here now, yeah? That’s all that matters.” I shove a few fries into my mouth and start chewing so I don’t have to talk anymore.

Thankfully, the conversation drifts onto something else that doesn’t involve me. Eren keeps making glances at me, but I ignore them, munching on the soggy potatoes instead.

The rest of the day goes by with an unsatisfactory feeling that weighs down my chest, but at least the classes I have today are more than easy. It’s almost like a joke; I’ve been excelling in German and Spanish since the start of the year, leaving me ahead with nothing to do in class. Too bad the teachers don’t let anyone sleep in class, or I would for sure.

I feel as though I can’t control anything in my life anymore.

It’s surprising when Eren pulls me over on my way out the school entrance after the bell rings. What does he want?

“Hey,” he says, hand on my arm.

I finally look into his bright, green eyes. “Hi,”

“You doing anything tonight?” he asks me. Either he’s leaning in closer, or I’m just imagining it.

I shake my head. “Um, not.. not really. Just studying… nerd stuff.”

His hand slides down and away from me then. “Oh,”

“Mm, yeah…” I say like an idiot.

His face lights up again when he proposes, “Can I come over?”

“Err,” Dad is probably going to be out all night anyway. “Well, maybe after dinner.”

“Why after?” Eren quirks a brow. I have to look away; oh God, why does he look so nice today? “Why not now?”

“Ah, um, because…” The words are stuck on my tongue like globs of taffy. “We’ll be alone the whole night.”

“Alone?” Eren perks up as if he likes the idea. “Isn’t your dad home?”

“Naw,” I say. “Out working graveyard.”

He smiles wide. “Cool, call me then? I’ve got the car tonight.”

“Sure,” I agree. “Wait, doesn’t only Mikasa drive?”

He flushes, biting his lip. “Shhh! No one heard you say that.” I let out a bleating laugh. “Anyway, see you then.”

I wave. “Yeah, bye.”

 

As soon as Dad leaves for work, I call Eren over. It amazes me how far we’ve gone in a short amount of time knowing that we… that I like Eren; my back presses against the wall as he smashes his lips to mine.

“Mm, wait,” I push him back a little, panting for breath. He kisses so well. His eyes glow in the dim lighting.

“You okay?” He traces my side, gently tugging at my shirt. I know he wants it off, but I’ve got something to say first.

My eyes suddenly can’t meet his again. “Well, um…” Eren pulls a perplexed face at me. “Uh…” The words don’t seem to be coming to me, leaving me completely tongue-tied.

“What’s up, Marco?” he says my name and chills run down my spine. “You still feeling up to it?” His hips collide with mine.

I gulp. “Yeah,”

I can’t ask him if he likes me or not. That’s stupid. It’s immature. It’s like spitting in his face after everything we’ve done. I can’t ruin this connection I have with him now.

But screw this. His lips are on mine again, and, for another night, I succumb to what I think I really want, even if I’ve screwed myself over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /sweats profusely/ So...?  
> Let me know how it was! I'd love to see what you thought of this chapter. Critiques are even welcome!
> 
> Alright, I'll see you again in _the next chapter_!  
>  Have a fantastic day (hopefully). :-D


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why is this the last thing I want to hear?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back...! And really late on this chapter because of unfortunate events that left me in a hellhole for a while. Now that things are cleared up (and I'm getting a puppy soon!), time for another chapter of TotS!  
> Yes, the chapters have been getting shorter, but that'll change with time. I just don't have as much energy to write anymore when I have classes _and_ seemingly full-time work (they're making us work to the bone) every week. Hopefully, my writing hasn't gone down the drain because of that.
> 
> **Violence Trigger Warning** in this chapter! Please take caution when reading this. I even had a bit of a hard time trying to word it as things can seem very real in mental scenarios.
> 
> Poor Marco; I don't want to torture him any further, but everything he does just makes me want to scream "wtf are you doing?" at him. XD
> 
> Let me know how I did in this chapter!  
> Thanks!

It stings, but I’ll bear it.

It hurts, but I’ll handle it.

Eren bites down on my neck as he holds my biceps in a death grip, making my hands go numb at the very fingertips. I can hear his breath hitch, his muscles tense, his eyes squeeze closed together as the wave of his warmth rushes into my body. I’m exhausted, but he wants to keep going. He breathes my name into my ear, his musk hanging heavy around us. It belongs to him, meant to be be of him, and I’m beginning to find myself queasy from smelling it for so long. He starts to move again.

I’m in pain, but I’m a big boy.

I can cope with it just fine.

Just as I learn to grow away from my dad, my family, I also become more and more involved with Eren. Mikasa is rarely ever home at his house, let alone his father, who’s always out on call because he’s a doctor. Whatever that means. I don’t know nothing about doctors, really. It’s the perfect place for us to hang out, to kiss and fuck and ‘love each other’, says Eren.

But I don’t feel like this is ‘making love’. Not anymore. I used to, the first time we stayed over at Bertl’s and did it in a guest room somewhere. Still, my heart cries out to him when we’re away from one another, pumping hard when he gets close to me, though it’s not whole when we’re joined together. It’s kind of like sex between us is like an exchange. I give him a part of myself, something that I’ve come to hate, but he loves. He gives me pleasure, though, and that is something I don’t mind at all. He gives me the attention I don’t get too often; I quit tumbling already and haven’t been in a spotlight since.

Not that I’m a diva or anything, no no. That’s not what I’m saying. What I _am_ saying is that Eren still gives me something that makes me feel… loved… important, maybe? And I can’t just abandon him. He needs someone just as much as I do.

His lips tear away from my shoulder when he’s done, crooning slightly as we lay together and catch our breaths. Eren kisses me on the neck, nuzzling it softly.

“I love you,” I whisper like I always do when he’s basking in the afterglow.

He rolls onto his back. “Mm, yeah.”

I do the same, my hand coming to rest on his belly. He’s warm, despite how bony he may be. We stare at the ceiling; I’m admiring the cottage cheese texture of it while his mind still tries to piece itself back together. What I don’t expect is when he grasps my hand in his, lacing our fingers together. I squeeze his hand just a little, and he returns it.

Sometimes we have times like these, where he’s overly sweet to the point where I want to cry. I can’t leave him alone. Not yet. Even when not all of our times in bed are like this. Because there’s tiny incidents like this that leave me sobbing under the spray of the shower after.

 

When I come home from his house, smooching him in the car before I climb out, Dad’s waiting for me in the kitchen, reading the newspaper like dads do in the movies. He glances at me before turning the leaf-thin page, stating, “You reek,”

I sigh, “I know,” I wasn’t able to grab a shower at Eren’s.

“What were you doing with your friends?” he asks. “Wrestling?”

“Something like that,” I blurt, willing myself not to turn tomato red. “‘m gonna go take a shower.”

Thankfully, I make it to the bathroom without tripping over myself or making the scene a bigger deal than it really should be, locking the dingy door behind me. My back slides down it until I’m sitting back against the door, nose pointed at the sky. My nose is beginning to heat up and I’m pretty sure that it’s turning pink, too. Shit. The tears rush in like a river, drowning out my senses for a second… or, at least, it feels like a second. It’s probably longer.

My palms press at my eyes, trying to catch the tears. A hiccup escapes me, and I immediately shut myself up. Maybe it’s better to be crying in the shower. Dad can’t hear me that way. Shucking off my rumpled clothes, I hop into the shower stall, blasting the water on hot, but it’s really just lukewarm. It’ll have to do.

The first batch of tears goes quickly, washed away down the drain. Sobs rack my body, my ribcage starting to ache from all heaving I’m doing here. Sooner than later, they subside, leaving me empty of sadness but prone to listlessness. I have to go do something before that happens, and turn off the tap, wiping the excess water off my skin before stepping out of the shower and drying myself off with a threadbare towel we’ve had since I can remember. Wrapping it around my waist, I creep my way back into the bedroom. I need to get a shirt on before Dad notices anything.

* * *

AP Stats is killing my ass. The only reason why I’m in this class is all thanks to Connie, who convinced me that it’d be easier than calc. Sure, maybe it’s easier for _him_ , but not for me. I get confrazzled just looking at the graphs and numbers. I was never good at math, in reality. I don’t know why I’m still sticking in with this… well, sort of. I can’t switch out of another class because it’s already written into my school schedule.

“Hey,” Connie pokes me in the back with the eraser of his pencil. I turn around, annoyed.

“What?” I say.

He grins at me like there’s nothing wrong in the world. “What’d you get for number five?”

I roll my eyes. I’m still stuck on number three. “Fourty-two,” I huff.

“Really?”

“No!” I groan, “Do you think I’m a math whizz? I’m still figuring out the first one!”

Connie backs off, an eyebrow skyrocketing. “Alright, geez. Don’t be a sour-puss, Marco.”

Ugh, I shouldn’t have snapped at him like that, but this subject just drives me nuts. Sighing, I press on with my math worksheet, doing the best I can to interpret… whatever the hell is on the paper.

German, and I’m bored, dying when my classmates pronounces the ‘w’ as an actual English ‘w’ rather than a ‘v’. I want to get up on my desk, jump up and down like an orangutan and scream ‘ _heiße Schokolade mit Schlagsahne_ ’ as loud as I can, in German, of course. That phrase scares every non-speaker, even though it doesn’t mean anything other than hot chocolate with whipped cream.

I’m just about ready to walk home until Connie stops me, inviting me over to the arcade for some chips and stuff.

“They just installed some new games,” Connie is a loudmouth and loves to hear himself; my ears are hurting a little from his volume. “You should come over.”

I don’t know if I should. Not without Eren, at least. Ever since I fell from the balance beam, things with my friends haven’t ever been the same. Without Eren, I can’t really relate to their conversations, no matter how funny Connie or Sasha’s joke is. I’m starting to feel lonely, and sometimes, I don’t understand why I feel this way. Sure, I may be surrounded by people, but my feelings are still the same.

“M-maybe later, yeah?” I tell him. “I’ve, uh, I’ve got a lot of stuff to do, ya know? Besides, I work there, too.”

Connie rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but that’s _work_ ,” He reasons, “I wanna know if you wanna hang with us.”

Urgh. This is hard. My chest aches, clearly seeking interaction with the others, but I _know_ that my expectations aren’t going to be fulfilled. I smile the best I can, but it I feel it falter when I reply, “Mm, not today, Connie. Sorry. Gotta help out the old man,”

Connie looks a tiny bit disheartened, but bounces back within a second or so. “Alright, then see you tomorrow at work! I heard that someone booked the place for a birthday party, so be ready to get wrecked!” He gave me a thumbs up, which I returned.

“Sounds good,” I say.

“Yeah, see you ‘round,”

We part ways like we normally do; he’s happy as ever, and I’m left questioning what the hell is wrong with me. I wish I could go back and do everything over again. Wouldn’t that make my life just so much easier? I would never have to feel awkward around Connie and Sasha, I would be able to get Eren to actually love me, Papa and Mama would have never split, and, and…

And Jean would have never left.

Oh, if only I was still friends with him. Then my life would have totally changed from where it is now. In all honesty, I think my whole life would have been better if I hadn’t gotten mad at him when we went to Disneyland, so many years ago. That incident really destroyed us, if not my entire life in domino effect.

Fuck, fuck fuck. If only I hadn’t been so ignorant and selfish! Jean and I would have still been good friends… maybe even my love life would have changed.

As I flop myself onto the bed after chucking my backpack somewhere, that icky, gunky mess of emotion swirls inside me, I hate it to the point where I want to reach into my chest, grab whatever that gross stuff is and hurl it so far away from me; I hope it splats onto the wall and stays there. I grab my pillow, stuffing my face in it to hide from the world around me. At least the absence of light in my pillow will help me, even just a little bit.

I groan, flipping over onto my back. It’s windy outside, and I can hear the wind howling against the apartment complex. It gives me the heebie jeebies, sounding so eerie like that. At the same time, it’s comforting, like the wind is singing some old folktale song in its own language.

I may be more tired from school than I think, because I feel my eyes drooping every passing minute. The bed seems more comfortable than ever now, and I don’t want to get up to make myself food just yet, though my stomach is screaming at me to eat something. No, I’m not going to move. I can always cook something up when I’m done sleeping off my despair.

* * *

The wrenching in my gut hurts. I’m so sick of this weirdo emotional rollercoaster that’s going on in my stomach and in my chest. I want it to be over with. As I go to prom with Eren, my heart sinks when he waves hello to a gaggle of girls standing by the buffet. The feeling only gets progressively worse when he sneaks off on the dancefloor to go grind with Krista and Mina, two of my classmates from Statistics. What is it that’s bothering me? What is it that makes me want to scream at Eren? If I do that, I’m not even sure what I would yell at him about.

With my dinner plate stacked with food, I gorge myself on the rich food while everyone else is dancing. My stomach is like an bottomless pit these days; I don’t know why. At least no one is eating anymore except for me. I can get all that I want without a limit… or, at least, until the platters are put away.

When I’m on my third bread roll, slathered in succulent honey butter, Eren waddles back to me, giving me a huge smooch on the cheek. I let him do it, though I’m not in the mood to show any PDA.

“Your house tonight?” he says into my ear, breath ghosting upon it, and I shudder.

“Y-yeah,” Dad isn’t coming home tomorrow morning. He said that he would be sleeping over at a coworker’s so he could get some more hours in at work before he takes next week off for some relaxation time.

Eren smiles against the shell of my ear, and I can feel it. “Okay, awesome.” He says, “You’re not going to dance?”

“Not tonight,” I tell him. I’m not in the mood for dancing.

“Oh, come on, Marco,” Eren nudges me a little just as a slow song comes on. “Just one teeny-weeny dance with me.”

Hell, it’s prom night. I got to go with my date (we passed it off to the ASB as ‘we’re friends who got rejected. Let’s just go together.’) to this place, had as much food as I wanted, ‘enjoyed’ the music playing… What else shouldn’t I do? Besides, it’s only _one_ dance, says Eren.

So I do, letting Eren take my hand in his to pull my body onto the dancefloor, in the throng of people grinding against each other. Eren knows I’m feeling uncomfortable around them, but he doesn’t do anything against it. We have to make our own little world to dance in; forget the rest. He takes my waist, my hand going to his shoulder, and we sway, swinging in place while everyone else does their own thing.

If I let go of my thoughts, it’s pretty nice like this. Like this, I’m close enough to get intimate with Eren. Dancing with him makes me feel a lot more at peace than if he and I were in bed. I lay my head (or at least try to; I’m getting too tall to do this) on his shoulder, hand stroking his hair soothingly. He likes that, I take it, because I feel a grin on my neck, kisses following right after. It’s calming; I’m glad that Eren invited me to dance with him.

We don’t care if the song suddenly switches into a fast-pace, rocker song. We’re trapped in our little bubble, dancing with each other in a way that I’ve never been able to. It feels nice like this, where I don’t have to think about life. Only him. The conflict and confusion in my heart settles to the bottom tonight, letting me rest for a while. I like it like this.

I like it like this.  
We stumble up the stairs to the apartment where I live after prom is over. Eren’s hands are everywhere on me, and mine are on him, both of us just as needy for each other as we were when we first encountered each other in the bedroom at Bertl’s place. Our lips somehow find each other in the dark, always melding together quickly before I pull away to get us closer to the door. The sooner I unlock it and shove Eren into the bedroom, the less we might get in trouble with one of my neighbors- I don’t know any of them, and that makes it even more risky showing public displays of affection… or, in this case, two guys trying to have sex against the wall right then and there because Eren suddenly shoves me into the corner of the hallway we’re in, devouring my mouth.

I moan, excitement boiling in the core of my being as I kiss back just as roughly. The dance made me feel so good; I don’t want this, er, for a lack of better terms, this spell upon us to break, leaving me with that grief I have felt with Eren for so long. I want him now, but the hallway isn’t exactly the best place to fuck.

My keys nearly slip from my hand as Eren presses up against me, chest flush with my back, cock grinding into my ass. I grit my teeth, trying to keep myself steady enough to open the door. I want Eren now.

To my relief, the door unlocks and I pull Eren in, slamming the door shut and locking it before attacking his lips with mine. We kiss rough and sloppy, our hands slithering under clothing that serves as more an obstacle as we progress further into the night.

“Bed,” I gasp when he bites the side of my neck. I know he isn’t supposed to give me any marks or my dad will notice, but tonight I don’t give a damn.

We fall onto my bed, his body already on mine. We’re in a frenzy stripping each other of our nice clothing. I accidentally rip his jacket sleeve, but he shrugs, telling me he can’t wait anymore. He needs to have me. And I need to have him. We undress in a fury.

His mouth is hotter than ever, swallowing me like he’s done many times, but now it’s different. He’s teasing me with tentative licks around the tip, even going as far as tonguing at the slit. My eyes roll closed, unchecked moans spilling from my mouth. My fingers grip at his hair, and I beg him to hurry. I want him to take me. Thankfully he’s not in the mood to wait, either.

I tighten unconsciously around him when he first slides in. It feels so good, his member breaching me apart. I cling to him, my arms circling around his neck, drawing him towards me for another kiss. My legs are placed around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back.

“Eren!” I cry, and he’s the only thing I can see right now. His olive skin, green eyes… brown hair all mussed up from my hands.

He throws his head back. “God, Marco,” It feels so hot. So good. “Fuck, yes,”

His hips begin to piledrive me, taking me higher. My mouth hangs open permanently, constantly making sounds, my lips wrapped around Eren’s name. My nails claw at his skin, leaving red streaks in their wake. My abdomen is beginning to tense, muscles clenching hard as sign that I’m going to come soon. And, oh God, I want that. I want to release with Eren…

“Eren,” My words are slurred, my voice thick with passion. “Eren, please,”

He shivers, I can feel it, balls slapping against my ass with a smack faster, faster, yes, yes, faster than before. My neck is littered with bruises, hickeys, that leave me feeling satisfied more than I ever have with Eren. He licks a stripe up to my ear, panting hard and ragged. He’s going to come too, I know it. But what I don’t know is what he says next.

“Marco,” he croaks, voice low. “I love you.”

What..?

I can feel him coming, twitching in me, warmth spreading throughout my lower region. My orgasm catches me by surprise, but my mind is somewhere, else, the release feeling nothing more than slight tingles of pleasure sparking over me.

He loves me? Eren loves me?

Then, if he loves me, shouldn’t I be happy? Why can’t I tell him I love him back?

Do I love him?

Do I _actually_ love him?

He strokes my cheek softly, softer than he’s ever done, kissing my still lips until I come back to reality. He hums when I respond, a smile on his face.

Our tongues meet before he can say anything; my body begs for more. I don’t need him to talk right now. I don’t want to deal with who loves whom right now. I just want him to take me again, thighs already hiking themselves up to rest upon Eren’s shoulders, my body still flexible from years of tumbling and gymnastics. He looks surprised, but doesn’t hesitate, immediately joining with me.

“Harder,” I say. “Ah! Harder, come on,” Eren’s being unfamiliarly gentle with me, thrusts still shallow enough that I don’t feel any discomfort when I usually do.

“Marco,” he breathes against my skin. “You’re so good… God, I love yo--,”

The door bangs open hard enough for the doorknob to punch through the thin drywall. My head whips around in the pillows so fast that I can feel the static make my hair cling to the fabric in a sea urchin-y way. My eyes widen at the sight, just as wide as my dad’s are as he stares at where Eren and I are joined.

Dad’s still got his work uniform on, dirt still smudged on his face. His moustache is scraggly from the hours of work, elements constantly battering his skin and hair. He looks horrified at the scene he’s walked into; shock is written all over him. He shouldn’t be home. He was supposed to come back in the day, not now. How did this happen? I can do nothing but stare back, frozen in place.

I don’t even remember how or what happened, but now Eren’s screaming, my dad grabbing him by the hair, hauling him to the door. I’m crying, tears streaming down my face as I try to hold onto Eren. But Dad elbows me hard in the stomach, causing me to double over, vision blurry with tears and pain. I made a mistake coming here. I should’ve had Eren take me to his place.

“Dad, stop!” I yell as hard as I can, but he’s already kicking Eren out of the door. “Stop!”

“Marco..!” Eren tries to speak to my dad, “Mr. Bodt, please! Don’t!”

But Dad just shuts the door on him, locking him out after chucking Eren’s clothes at him. He’s so angry, I can see it in his posture. He’s fuming when he turns back to me, fury clouding the atmosphere around him. All I can do is huddle and beg on my knees for him not to hurt me. I hate pain, I don’t want this. I didn’t want this to happen. I didn’t want him to know.

The first kick comes swiftly, his shoe jabbing right into my ribcage and I swear I hear something crack. My body is so shaky with pain that I don’t even feel the next kick, straight into my nose.

_Crack!_

_Snap!_

Everything hurts too much to bear, my vision starting to black in and out. I can’t seem to focus on my father, blearily glaring at his hazy form. He’s yelling at me, screaming at me, but I can’t understand one word. It’s over. I messed up, bringing Eren home. I already know Dad is extremely homophobic.

God, it’s painful. I tried to conceal this from Dad for so long, but… but I just can’t anymore. He already knows now. He’s killing me over it. My ribs hurt. My stomach is knotting. A kick to my face, and I swear I feel and _hear_ my nose crunching. Blood drips from it, but I honestly feel that my entire body is cut and bruised and bleeding. I don’t want this.

Stop. Stop.

Stop,

_Please._

And, eventually, he does. Dad is exhausted, no more energy left for him to spend; he’s already worked all day, yet he has at least enough energy to haul me from the ground and throw me out of the house, too. My head hits the concrete floor with an ear-blasting (at least for me) thud, Dad has enough compassion for his son to chuck a blanket and some of my clothing, a shirt and pants, at me. I can be, at the very minimum, modest in clothing while kicked out of the house.

Eren didn’t wait for me outside. I think he fled the moment Dad shoved him out the door. Now, it’s just me lying in the apartment complex, homeless and cold, unable to move properly. I can’t cry. There are no more tears left. All the liquid I have in me needs to be used for hydration the rest of the night, not spent on useless cries of pain and suffering.

Reaching for my clothing, I slip on my shirt with a groan. The pants are next, but I can’t get them zipped up; my fingers are too numb to function right. The blanket I manage to wrap around me is wonderfully warm in the still coldness of the outside elements. Though I ache and am beginning to bruise all over, I crawl to a warmer, safer place, somewhere farther away, down the stairs, to the corner of the street, into an alleyway with trash bags that look like heavenly, warm and stinking black-colored pillows. No one wants to see a beat up kid the moment they step onto this level of apartments. 

A yawn leaves my chapped, bleeding lips. I’m so tired, sleep calling my name. I need my rest if I want to survive the rest of the night.

As soon as my eyes close, my mind shuts down, leaving me in a restless and unconscious state, incapable of moving from where I lie.

* * *

Connie’s bedroom ceiling is the first thing I see… wait, no. This isn’t Connie’s bedroom. It’s like Connie’s room, but it’s not. He has Superman posters plastered to the ceiling, and this smooth ceiling is bare except for a pattern of scattered glow-in-the-dark fish I saw back at the toy store for just a dollar. I blink up at them, slightly confused.

Who picked me up if it wasn’t Connie? Was it Eren? Mikasa? Sasha, even? Surely, no stranger would carry a teenager napping in reeking garbage at four in the morning… or whenever they found me. I don’t even know what time it is.

I turn my head with some difficulty to the side, noticing how large the bedroom actually is. This is definitely _not_ Connie’s room. Someone must be loaded, being able to afford such a big place in San Francisco. Or maybe the bedroom is huge, but the rest of the flat is barely enough to fit three people. No, no one would lay out a floor plan as ridiculous as that.

There’s a fish tank right next to a study desk, colorful, bright marine life swimming this way and that. There’s even a shrimp in there that is transparent except for the neon red stripes running down its back. It’s beautiful, but so fascinatingly freaky at the same time. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a seahorse hiding behind the artificial coral in the aquarium, either. Okay, so this person is definitely loaded.

Aquarium, glow in the dark fish, study desk… Is this person… No, it can’t be… could it..?

My head snaps to the door when it creaks open, and I’m met with someone I wasn’t hoping for. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I feel the weight of disappointment. But why? Was I hoping that I would be saved by… by Jean? No way. He’s already gone, I know that for a fact. He’s in Europe, doing his own diddly-dally thing with not even a thought about me in his head.

“You’re up,” remarks the girl in the doorway. She’s got the bluest eyes I have ever seen, so bright and clear that they’re a reflection of the sky. Blond hair falls down her shoulders, so golden it almost looks like white. “Can you speak English?”

I nod, looking down. My voice is cracking from my parched throat, “Y-yeah,”

“Oh good,” Another voice, more rickety and aged, comes from the doorway. An elderly woman in a wheelchair, I see. “The kiddo’s awake.”

“He looks like he’s doing better too, Ymir,” says the girl. She smiles brightly like she’s excited to see me with eyes open and aware.

“A-ah,” My mouth is now so dry that I can't talk in words anymore.

The girl comes up to me, offering me a glass of water then, her smiling never faltering in its brightness. “Here, you must be thirsty.”

I accept it, sipping it so I won't choke on the whole thing. I'm grateful I can move this much, though it still hurts like a bitch. “Thank you,” I say.

“You're confused where you are,” The lady, presumably Ymir, states. She's correct. I'm oblivious to what's going on right now. “Krista was running some errands for me and decided to take the unsafe path back home…” Ymir peers at Krista who blushes, clearly embarrassed.

“Sorry! It was cold and I wanted to be quick.” she explains. “Plus, if I didn't use that shortcut, I would never have come across uh, uh..”

“Marco,” I introduce myself. “I'm Marco.”

“Mhmm, I would have never met Marco if I didn't take that shortcut,” Krista corrects herself.

Ymir squints her eyes at me. “I guess so. But you're the one who brought him back, Krista.”

My eyes widen. Krista brought me back? All by herself? But she couldn't have; I'm so tall and heavy, I would have crushed her if she tried to lift me. “How?”

“Oh, it was easy.” Krista babbles. “I dragged you home.” She pauses, then blushes darker. “I mean, you were wrapped in a blanket, so you didn't get scraped up or anything. And I made sure that your head didn't hit the ground.”

“But how? I weigh a ton,” I say even though I actually believe I'm on the borderline of underweight for my height.

Ymir speaks for Krista. “Don't underestimate her. She's stronger than she looks,” Ymir sidles up to Krista, patting her on the head dotingly.

All I can do is gawk. These two are a strange pair.

“Anyway, so now you know.” Krista chirps. “Are you hungry? Lunch is ready.”

“Oh. Oh, um…” 

Krista chuckles. “Don’t worry, I made extra. Just in case you’re a big eater.”

“Like me,” Ymir points her thumb to herself, grinning sheepishly.

I nod as best as I can without hurting myself, but the question still remains in my mind, “H-how long was I out?” It slips past my lips before I realize it.

Krista’s face pinches slightly before she answers, “Three days. You seemed more than bone-tired, I guess.”

“Bone-tired?”

“We couldn’t even wake you when you had to use the restroom,” states Ymir. “Krista took care of you.”

A hot, embarrassed blush spreads over my freckled cheeks, ashamed that I needed assistance from someone seemingly younger than me. It feels almost as if I’m _incapable_ of maintaining a stable life myself. What would that mean in the future when I had my own career going?

“Thanks, Krista,” I say to her, and I really am grateful.

“It’s not a problem,” she replies. “Do you think you can walk?”

“Um,” I slide my lower half to the side of the bed, placing my feet on the carpeted floor. Man, even the carpeting feels plush and rich. Who exactly are these people? “I think so.”

Krista says, “That’s okay. Don’t rush it.” She runs out of the room, scooting Ymir over just a smidge before rolling over a wheelchair to me.

“Oh, no,” I feel so self-conscious of myself now. “I’m fine, really.”

“No, you’re not, kid,” Ymir speaks. “I suggest you save your energy before you burn yourself out trying to do the impossible.”

“Walking isn’t impossible,” I blurt out, but then clack my mouth shut because Ymir is in a wheelchair. She can’t walk no matter how hard she wishes to.

“Marco…” Krista says.

Ymir holds up her hand in a fist. “No, Krista, it’s alright.” She shakes her head. “He’s angry, tired and sad. You better watch your mouth, Marco. Or you might get yourself into a rut later.”

“Sorry.” I apologize, and Krista helps me into the wheelchair. She leaves me there for a moment, rolling Ymir to the dining room before I go, her push soft but steady.

“No need to be sorry,” Krista gives me the friendliest smile I have ever seen. “Everything will be okay, Marco.”


End file.
